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TOE MS 

'BY 

JAMES zA. RITCHEY. 



TfEDICATED TO mY WIFE. 



'PUBLISHED ©y THE <^UTHOR. 
igoS. 






LiiiKARY ol CUNiiHESSl 

JUN 26 1908 



COPYRIGHT, 



JAME3 A. RITCHBT, 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

A Theory of Poetry 5 

Beauty 12 

The Twin Roses 15 

Spring 20 

Annetta , 21 

Lines Written in an Album 23 

The Thunder Storm 23 

The Pine Forest 25 

Reversible Verses 26 

A Gem 27 

A Prayer 28 

Autumn 30 

The Farmer 32 

The Stream of Life 34 

TwiHght 36 

Written in an Album 36 

The Cascade 37 

The Death of an Infant Brother 39 

Written in an Album 41 

Adieu to the Plow 43 

The Old School House 46 

The Death of a Cousin 48 

Adieu 49 

The Endless Path 51 



4 CONTENTS 

Ode to Contentment 58 

Lines to "Sid" 59 

Reminiscences 61 

Carmen Natale 62 

In Boyhood 64 

The Land of Lethe 66 

The Hidden Kingdom y2 

Is There Balm in Gilead? 83 

The Samian Wi, — A Revery 85 

The Autumn Insects 90 

The Cloven Rock 95 

The Husbandman's Monument 98 

The Last Song of the Poet 102 

A Vision of Time 112 

The Maid of Melantha 1 16 

The Happy Islands 125 

The Humming Bird 128 

Translation from the Antigone of Sophocles 135 

Translation from Sappho 138 

Translation from Sappho 140 

March of Sennacharib's Army Against Jerusalem. . . 141 

The Psalm of the Creation 142 

My Tempe 149 



A THEORY OF POETRY. 

AH literary composition is either prose or poetry. But this classifica- 
tion is only formal. It overlaps, and has therefore no critical value. Some 
of the finest passages of prose are highly poetical, and some poems are 
prosaic. Prose and poetry cannot be distinguished by the forms in which 
they are expressed. Versify the Declaration of Independence, and no poetry 
makes its appearance. Write out Tennyson's Maud into prose lines of average 
length, and it will not cease to be poetry. The essential elements of prose 
and the same of poetry may be mixed in almost any proportion in either prose 
or poetry. Take all the prose out of a poem, and nothing may be left but 
the empty schema for its scansion. Take all the poetry out of a piece of 
prose, and not a single sentence of prose may remain. A whole chapter of 
prose may be all poetry, and a correctly versified poem may be all prose. But 
the most highly finished specimen of prose is never called a poem; nor Is a 
poem, even without a line of poetry in it, ever called prose. Prose is there- 
fore not antithetic to poetry, but the poem is, at least conventionally, anti- 
thetic to prose. The making of verse is one thing, but the making of poetry 
quite another. One may write poems "faultily faultless," and yet may have 
no pretension to the name of poet. 

What then is poetry? It is not prose. It does not consist in subject. 
Prose and poetry may take the same subject. The drama and the epic take 
the same themes as history. It does not consist in rhyme; or blank verse is 
not poetry, and Homer and Virgil and Milton are not poets. It does not con- 
sist in feet, meter, rythm, verse. For a prose translation destroys these, but 
leaves the poetry intact, if the translation is faithful. Ossian's poems trans- 
lated into English prose, thence into Italian, thence into Spanish, French, 
German and so onward, did not and could not cease to be poetry. The es- 
sence of this most tenuous and volatile of all poetry did not evaporate in 
this process any more than if the translation had been made in verse. The 
preservation of the poetry depends upon the correctness of the version, but 
not any more than would the quality of prose history in like transition. Every 
human heart feels the charm of Ossian's poetry, let the head think what it 
may. Its sublime heroism made his poems the favorite book of Paul Jones 
and Napoleon. It has never been successfully versified. Macpherson says it 
cannot be. Poetry is greater than a poem. Meters cannot measure the depth 
of the heart. Put Fingal and Agandecca into verse, and they would lose them- 
selves in its precision. These mighty heroes and white armed heroines of 



6 A THEORY 

"other times" must be free as the air they breathe or vanish. Their airy 
wraiths, dead and yet alive, are seen and heard across the line in the dim 
mists and the fleecy clouds. They walk the air like shadows. They come 
back in the winds and storms. They sit upon the misty hill tops, or roam 
the moon lit vales. They listen again to the sad songs of war and death and 
fame and love and life. They know their friends and talk with them. Only 
the simplest of words in the plainest of prose can tell of them. 

The most poetical of all poetry is that which is clear of all classical al- 
lusions. Pure poetry needs no myths, legends, traditions, references, or even 
rhetorical figures. These beautify a poem, as music does; but they are no es- 
sential part of it. Witness the sweetest, little songs in any language. These 
are the best specimens of poetry pure and simple. 

Poetry is not an inspiration. If a iMet were inspired, that would war- 
rant only the correctness of his writing. He would need also a revelation to 
give him new knowledge. Then he would be a prophet. A poet may be a 
prophet, or a prophet may be a poet. But the one does not imply the other. 
Poetry is not a gift, for that would imply inspiration and revelation. Poetry 
is not the product of any "faculty divine." No man has any mental faculty 
or power that another has not. It is not a creation. None but God can 
create. It is not a product of genius. Genius is only a myth. Psychology 
finds no room for it. The fountain of poetry is an intermittent spring flowing 
at uncertain intervals. No poet is always a poet. Even the good Homer 
nods sometimes. But there is not any intermittent faculty or primary and 
original intermittent mental power. What is called poetical genius is only an 
elevated or intensified mood of the whole mind, not a special activity or 
faculty superadded to the mind or to any of its powers. Minds ai-e never in 
this mood till the first of adolescence. Girls and boys, before that, may 
write good verses and rhymes, and love the music of poetry. But not till 
after that comes the efflorescence of all their energies, it may be into poetry. 

Poetry is an attempt in thought to realize the ideal by means of lan- 
guage. It is only an attempt, for the ideal is, from its nature unattainable. 
It cannot be expressed; it can be only suggested. Prose describes the real, 
but poetry strives to make the ideal, real. Poetry is therefore a gradual ap- 
proximation to the ideal, only gradual, because every step leads always and 
only to another farther and higher. Poetry assigns to itself an endless task. 
The highest possible reach of the human mind is toward the ideal. It is by 
virtue of its ability to construct and follow ideals that its progress towards 
perfection is mathematically infinite. Since the lowest grade of the ideal 
must be placed immediately above the real, and the ascent by steps is in- 
definite, it follows that the range of genuine poetry is unlimited. But poetry 



OF POETRY 7 

of the lowest degree is truly entitled to the name of poetry, as well as the 
most sublime epic. All real things that can be idealized are subjects of 
poetry. But all real things are imperfect. Prom a whole gallery of the world's 
masterpieces of beautiful paintings, were you to select the best qualities, you 
could not combine them into an ideal picture. The paintings are already rea- 
lizations. Elements of the real cannot be made into the ideal. Out of the 
real only the real can be made. The finest flower that ever bloomed, the 
most beautiful leaf that ever grew are not ideal. The finest and most exact 
description of the real falls short of poetry. 

The ideal is always one and the same in thought, but the means of its 
expression are widely different. By these various means the ideal is special- 
ized, and from them it takes different names. It is called painting if it is 
expressed by means of color; sculpture, if in marble or other suitable mate- 
rial; architecture, if in building; landscape gardening, if in tasteful arrange- 
ment of natural scenery; music, if by sound; and poetry, if by language. 
Poetical thought, or all the mental operations necessary to the construction 
of ideals, is the essence of poetry. But this idealistic thought is not technic- 
ally called poetry. For that it must be embodied in words. Each of the fine 
arts may take the same subject, but express it in its own peculiar way. 
Sounds, the natural method of expressing music, may be linguistic, and 
hence the same as for the expression of poetry. Poetry and music are thus 
twin sisters. But even if so intimately related, they must not be identified. 

The ideas of reason are the material out of which ideals are made. 
The whole mind, acting as constructive imagination, makes its own selection 
from these ideas, and then combines them into the ideals of its choice. The 
universal and necessary ideas of reason are the same in all men. These ideas 
of cause, space, time, right, beauty, infinity, perfection are essential to a 
human mind. Every one has imagination. Every one has language, and can 
express ideals. And hence the surprising but logical conclusion that every 
one who has reason and language is a poet In some degree. To what degree 
depends generally upon himself. Imagination may be educated as much as 
memory. Skill in the formation of ideals may be cultivated as much as cor- 
rectness in reasoning by syllogisms. Every one has a vein of poetry in him. 
But the thickness and richness of this poetic vein, common to all, may vary 
from almost nothing to the marvelous depth and golden wealth of the vein 
of Homer or of Shakspeare. Byron in his Prophecy of Dante says: — 

Many are poets who have never penned 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best, — 
Many are poets but without the name. 



8 A THEORY 

Wordsworth in his Excursion says about the same: — 

Oh, many are the poets that are sown 
By nature. These favored beings, 
All but a scattered few, live out their time, 
And go to the grave unthought of. 

That is to say, many, how many they have not to tell, possess the ability 
to be poets who do not choose to become poets. Milton speaks with the voice 
of a prophet from the loftiest height of Parnassus when he says that "he who 
would be a poet ought himself to be a true poem." That is he must acquire 
and cultivate poetical character. If he wishes to be a poet, he must make a 
poet of himself. Juvenal means about the same thing when he says, qualem 
nequeo monstrare, et sentio tantum. When a Virgil passes along the street, 
the great satirist could not but exclaim with the crowd. Hie est. He could 
feel what a poet is. But he could not point out to you a poet till he has felt 
the effect of the poetic character upon himself. Any one can do that, — feel 
the personal influence of another upon himself. 

The art of poetry is the most artistic of all arts, and the finest of the 
fine arts. It has a double meaning. In the first place, and as it is commonly 
understood, it is simply prosody, the art of versification. But in the second 
place, and in a much higher sense, it is the art of constructing ideals. Ac- 
cording to the first part of the definition, one might, with only an expert's 
skill in the use of the rules of prosody, write verses that would safely defy 
the sharpest critic to pick a flaw in them; and yet the writer might be merely 
an artist in words. He may write good poems, but only the poorest of poetry. 
By the second part of the definition, one might be a poet of the highest order, 
but have no skill in versification. A good poet may be a bad prosodist. If a 
Tennyson could give lessons in versification to a Shakspeare, it would prove 
only that the first were the better prosodist, not the better poet. To be a 
great poet is to be a great artist in ideals, which is to be a great thinker. 
Only at the expense of profound and protracted thought is a true system in 
science formulated. To make a true ideal, all that logical thought, and more 
too, is needed, for there is more than system in an ideal. Into the cold, 
heartless system, intense feeling must be breathed. But it is not true that 
sensibility is the main trait in the poetical character. There is more pure 
thought in Shakspeare's dramas than in Bacon's philosophy. A good poet 
must he a good logician. 

The translator of Ossian says: "The making of poetry, like any other 
handicraft, may be learned by industry." Milton says: "I would certainly 
take such a subject as the publishing whereof might be delayed and time 



OF POETRY. 9 

enough given to pencil it over with all the curious touches of art, even to the 
perfection of a faultless picture." And again he says: "I began to assent 
that by labor and intense study, which I take to be my portion in this life, I 
might perhaps leave something [poetical] so written to after times as they 
should not willingly let die." Colridge says: "There is no profession on 
earth which requires an attention so early, so long, and so unintermitting 
as that of poetry;" and that "the mere mechanism of verse is a difficult and 
delicate task." It is said that it took Tennyson eighteen years to finish Maud, 
and that he wrote the famous garden song in that poem nearly fifty times. 
On the other hand, he wrote the first draught of Locksley Hall in two days, 
but spent six weeks in correcting it. Burns wrote Tarn o' Shanter in one 
day, and Mary in Heaven in one evening. Dryden wrote Alexander's Feast, 
his best poem, in one night. But how long these poems had been coming to 
life and form and expression who can tell? Burns and Wordsworth, on their 
return home in the evening from their solitary rambles, would sit down and, 
without further study, commit to paper the poetical day's work they had 
committed to memory while they were in the process of composition and 
afterwards. Good poems are not extemporized. 

Poetry can become such only by the use of language. Some words 
are in themselves things of beauty. Longfellow says: "I like to read 
dictionaries; some words have a perfume like flowers." Let a word of this 
peculiar kind have no meaning, and still the empty shell of the word is beau- 
tiful. These words blend in melody and end in harmony. It must be that 
the sounds of their letters are beautiful. And what is music but the beauty 
of sound? That which is technically called expression in music makes music 
a universal language. It never fails to be understood. Precisely the same is 
true of this class of words. Not the literal but the musical expression of a 
word of this class makes the word its own interpreter. Homer's famous 
poluphloisboio has in it a little bit of music clipped from the old song of the 
sea. even to him who has never before heard a single word of Greek. The 
English word oriole, even when divested of every shade of meaning. Is still 
beautiful; and is so to any one of good taste, whether he speaks English or 
not. Read these highly poetical lines of Poe, here written intentionally in prose 
order, "And now, while so quietly lying, it fancies a holier odor about it of 
pansies, — a rosemary odor commingled with pansies, — with rue and the beau- 
tiful, Puritan pansies;" and, apart from the literal meaning, you can not help 
but remember for many a day the rythmical syllables singing themselves in 
the sweetest and richest of tones, like a tune without words. Imagination 
loves to revel in the luxury of musically beautiful words. The poet plays 
upon them as a minstrel upon a musical instrument. Onomatopoetical words 
are singular beauties in poetic expression. But their beauty is their own. 



10 A THEORY 

relative rather than intrinsical. By their echo of the sound, they translate 
the mere sound into sense. They become a natural language, and are inter- 
preted like a frown or a smile. 

Other words are just as certainly in themselves ugly. You never use 
them because you dislike them. It displeases, perhaps even offends you, to 
hear them. One of these is enough to spoil a good poem. An eloquent 
orator has lost the sympathy of his audience by the use of a single unfortu- 
nate word. It is an unpardonable offence against good literary taste to give 
an ugly name to a beautiful object, or a beautiful name to an ugly object. 
This may happen when there is nothing wrong with the word itself. But an 
unfortunate association of the word, otherwise of good repute, with some dis- 
gusting object or allusion has so befouled it that you can never again endure 
to hear it with the least degree of allowance. For you it cannot be washed 
clean. "An ounce of civet" could not sweeten the slightest suggestion of it. 
Parody, a literary crime worse than plagiarism, is guilty of this perversion 
and pollution of the pure and good In language. Its perpetrator is unworthy 
of asylum under the roof of wit or humor. Parody is of the same spirit that 
burns its betters in effigy, or desecrates the sweetest music by a ribald song. 
The finest poems, even hymns and prayers and the divine words of Christ 
Himself are associated with the vilest, filthiest, disgusting words; perverted, 
parodied! You can do, and perhaps well, what the parodist cannot do at all; 
and he would disparage, belittle, and ridicule what is high above his reach. 
His words are profane to the Muses. Association cannot redeem a ruined 
word. But, as there are many actions without moral quality, so there are 
many words without esthetic quality. Good usage picks and chooses even 
among these, although as a class they are all acceptable. 

So plain a study as that of words is an open door to poetry. Poetry 
is beautified by musically beautiful expression. Poetry in verse is poetry set 
to music. Burns would hum a tune to himself, and set the words of the 
poem he was composing to its music. A good song well sung is better than 
the same well read. The ancient rhapsodists chanted the poems they recited 
to the public. The effect of poetry is intensified by musical expression. But 
poetry is not music. Nor is music an element in poetry. The two are es- 
sentially distinct and different. Here the critics stumble. They think they 
are criticising a poet's poetry when they are merely finding fault with his 
language. A good poem may be nothing more than sounds versified into 
music. Poetry of the highest order may be expressed in the plainest, homeliest 
words. Poesy does not forfeit her title to the respect of the Muses, if she 
walks forth, as she often does, notably from the house of Burns and of Words- 
worth, clad in the plainest, homespun dress. Wordsworth was right in his 
theory that the simplest, unstudied prose words of the common people may 



OF POETRY. II 

be made the language of poetry. The same sounds are in a peasant's words 
as in the euphonious vocabulary of the most tasteful scholar. And now 
finally, prose is a description of the real. Poetry is an attempted description 
of the ideal. Poetry is essentially different from music. But musical lan- 
guage heightens its effect. Prose may be poetry; a poem may be prose. 
Every one who has reason and language is, in some degree, a poet. 

NOTE. — About one-half of the following verses were written while my 
education was extremely limited, and but few of them after I left school. 
Beginning with an early love of poetry, and reading all the poems I could 
find, my motive for attempting to write verses was partly to gratify my liking 
for poetry, but it was mostly educational. To cultivate taste, a sense of the 
beautiful, imagination, correct thought, language was the ambition of my 
boyhood. I believed then, and I am sure now, from my own practice, and 
from my experience with students as a teacher of rhetoric, that the study of 
poetry and the practice of writing verses is more valuable as an educational 
means than the inevitable prose essay. Poetry comes naturally before prose. 
Nations develop and cultivate poetry before prose. But nations could not if 
individuals did not. The best thought of the human mind and the finest 
feelings of the human heart aim, blend, and unite only in the poetry of the 
world. In the formation and cultivation of the character the refining, purify- 
ing, and elevating influence of poetry finds no equal. As an educational 
means it has in its own field no superior. Poetic Ideals are made up mostly 
of the true, the right, the beautiful, and the good. As there may be a rare 
few who sear their conscience till the still small voice is silent, and then say. 
Evil, be thou my good; so there may be a rare few who first blind the eyes 
of reason and then dare to say, let lies be to me for truth and ugliness for 
beauty. As a good musician cannot be a bad man till he loses himself in 
discord with himself, so a good poet is a good man as long as he proves 
true to his own poetic self. When the poetry all fades out of one's life his 
search for happiness is along a narrow and vanishing path. 



12 GIFTS TO 

BEAUTY. 

This is only a poetical essay written for practice in the art of versification. 

Thou, gentle muse, smile on my theme, 

And lead my mind along 
In fancy's bright, transporting dream 

Of melody and song. 

Infuse into my breast the flame 

That doth the bard inspire, 
And grant me rhyme and phrase the same 

That tune the poet's lyre. 

As beauty is the theme I sing. 

Its graces gentle to portray. 
How true description's aid to bring, 

Teach me the proper way. 

For as the bounds of space expand, 

The Queen of Beauty reigns. 
In empire over sea and land. 

And willing homage gains. 

For Beauty has a voice unheard, 

That whispers to the soul 
A language, free from sound or word. 

Yet potent to control. 



THE MUSES. 

And, with a silent charm, to melt 
The warring passions down. 

When all their might and fury 's felt, 
From love to anger's frown. 

Creation's self, to Beauty's taste. 

Rose in the empty void; 
In vale and mount and plantless waste, 

Her rule and line employed. 

Time's youngest sister she was born; 

And still her form blooms yet, 
Young as on new creation's morn, 

When first her cheek was wet 

With dews distilled from Eden's clime; 

Young as when Paradise, 
With all the flowers of summer time, 

She decked, and orient spice. 

But all her grace and charms combined, 
Her highest genius needed, 

To form the first of woman kind. 
Her master piece conceded. 

And Grecian chisel never made, 

Nor skill of painter drew 
A form so perfect, so arrayed, 

To lines of beauty true. 



14 GIFTS TO 

So fair the work a new born love 

Enchanted Adam's breast; 
Nor has the charm yet failed to prove 

Its sovereign power confest. 

The mellow light of morning's dawn 

How beautiful to view; 
The rosy tint each flower upon, 

Soft smiling in the dew! 

The zenith splendor of the day 

The smiles of morn absorb, 
And Phoebus, in his sapphire way, 

Rolls on his golden orb, 

And now is sinking in the west. 

In clouds of dappled dye; 
How beautiful and gorgeous rest 

His hues on evening's sky! 

The azure and vermilion tinge 

Grows dim and dimmer still, 
Till vesper, in her dusky fringe. 

Sinks 'neath the western hill. 

And night, approaching swift, appears 

Attired in sombre garb ; 
But beauty veils the eye from fears. 

And takes away their barb. 



THE MUSES. 

Behold, sweet Luna, queen of night, 

Yon dusk horizon gilds ; 
And, with her mild, etherial light, 

Floods hill and vale, and builds 

For fairies bowers of branch and vine; 

Her wan and silvery rays, 
In soft and dreamy lustre, shine 

Down through the leafy maze; 

And forms and figures strangely made 

Upon the mosses move. 
Their life a woof of light and shade, 

In silence through the grove. 

1849. 



THE TWIN ROSES. 



This reproduction from memory of an old-fashioned country song was 
written as a lesson in versification. 



Attention lend, ye gentle maids. 

And hear a rural lay ; 
How love the happy home invades. 

And steals young hearts away. 



i6 GIFTS TO 

2. 

A lovely damsel, charming fair, 

Did in yon cottage dwell, 
Whose bosom never sunk with care. 

Nor did with sorrow swell. 



And she was fair as morning's dawn. 

And lovely as the flower, 
That, smiling sweetly on the lawn, 

Woos for the gentle shower. 

4- 
Many a fond and truthful heart. 

From all the country round. 
She held in charms too strong to part, 

In love's enchantment bound. 

5- 

From out the train of suitors all, 

Two fared above the rest ; 
And each essayed the other's fall, 

As envy fired his breast. 

6. 
When Laurence saw his favored foe. 

Basking 'neath young Laura's smile, 
Vengeance did, in fury, glow. 

Within his bqsom vile. 



THE MUSES. 



7- 
He vowed a vow, with solemn oath. 

That die he should, in sorrow, 
Who had designed to rob him both 

Of peace and blooming Laura. 

8. 
One evening, when the sun had set 

In clouds of gold and azure. 
The favored love and Laura met. 

To stroll away in pleasure. 

9- 

They roamed along a river's beach, 

Far in a sylvan maze. 
Until they did a streamlet reach, 

That through a valley strays. 

ID. 

It was a wild, sequestered vale, 
Where many a songster sang. 

The robin's lay, the turtle's wail, 
In mellow music rang. 

II. 
The stately oak, and tapering pine, 

In wild confusion grew; 
The tendrils of the clinging vine 

Entwined their branches through. 



i8 GIFTS TO 

12. 

But little dreamed they, plighted ones, 

Their dawn of bliss was brief; 
That life and love, as envy comes, 

Must perish like the leaf. 

13- 
The slighted rival, brooding crime, 

In vengeance, deep and dire, 
Was lurking 'neath the grove sublime. 

To sate his jealous ire. 

14- 
His cheek was pale with boundless rage, 

And hope was in his breast. 
That all his hate he might assuage 

In one's eternal rest. 

15. 
With stealthy tread, and threatening eye, 

Like wild beast to its prey. 
He neared the bank, with movement sly, 

Where happy still were they. 

16. 
With one fell bound he plunged the knife 

Deep in his rival's heart, 
And sapped the crimson stream of life 

With murder's fiendish art. 



THE MUSES. 19 

17- 
Young Laura saw, and sighing fell, 

In death's cold, icy arms; 
Her soul too pure on earth to dwell, 

Bereft by sorrow's harms. 

18. 
'Midst depth of woods, in one wide tomb. 

They clasped in silence lie. 
Where honeysuckles yearly bloom, 

And willows o'er them sigh. 

19. 

A fairy planted on the grave 

A damask rich and rare. 
Of whose sweet flowers, that lightly wave, 

The nymphs bedeck their hair. 

20. 

Two roses, twins from out one stem. 

Upon it always bloom; 
Nor storm nor blight can wither them; 

They mark the sylvan tomb. 

1849. 



GIFTS TO 



SPRING. 

All hail, sweet spring, 

On gorgeous wing. 
In every vale appearing; 

Sweet Flora smiles 

In sylvan aisles. 
The budding forest cheering, 

And winter's blast 

Has sunk, at last, 
To vernal zephyrs nearing. 

In strains of love 

The plaintive dove 
Again is softly cooing; 

From hill and dell 

Sweet carols swell, 
Of tuneful songsters wooing; 

In rapturous notes 

Their music floats. 
Each one its song pursuing. 

The sparkling rills 

Gush from the hills, 
And through the vales are humming; 

With smiling flowers 

In fairy bowers 
The mossy banks are blooming; 

And wild birds sing. 

Till the forests ring. 
The flowery spring is coming. 



THE MUSES. 



ANNETTA. 



In a sweet, and quiet valley, 

Sylvan dale. 
Where the songsters call, and rally 

O'er the flowrets pale. 
Warbling love-lays where they dally, 
Mating, singing in the vale, 

Lives the maiden, young Annetta, 

Sweetest one, 
.And my first enamoretta, 

Cherished, loved, alone; 
There my ardent bosom met a 
Spirit kindred to its own; 

Eyes that dim the diamond's lustre, 

Brightest gem. 
Dimpled cheeks where young loves cluster, 

Roses made for them; 

Beauty's self did here intrust her 

Decked with sister diadem. 

Oft within that lovely, floral 

Vale we've met 
When were hushed the warblers choral 

And the day was set. 

Whilst a smile like light auroral 

Lit the eye of sweet Annette. 



GIFTS TO 

And we've wandered 'neath the vernal 

Pine's dense boughs, 
Whispered constancy eternal. 

Uttered love's fond vows. 
Till the starry night's supernal 

Lamp shone o'er the mountain brows. 

Then we've sat 'neath bowers entangled, 

Twined of yore, 
On the bank moss-woven, spangled 

With wild flowerets o'er. 
Where the osiers pliant dangled 
In the stream that laves its shore. 

Deep in its clear bosom beaming 

Stars shone bright; 
Burned beneath its silvery, gleaming 

Sands their gems of light ; 
There we've lingered loving, dreaming 
Visions sweet as swift their flight. 

Whilst the tones of song ascended, 

Sweet as they, 
With their rural lute notes blended, 

And the murmur's play, 
Like a sylphid's harp attended 
By soft, eolian lay. 

April II, 1850. 



THE MUSES. 23 

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

My pen is ready to redeem, 
Sweet memory, thy fading dream, 

From dark oblivion's dreary realm; 
Then let this a memento be 
When circling years both you and me 

With listless age shall overwhelm. 



THE THUNDER STORM. 

The gold orb of bright Phoebus is lurid with heat, 

And nature is hushed into quiet repose ; 
The languishing flowers, that were blushing and sweet, 

No longer their fragrance and odors disclose; 
All their beauties are pining, and losing each charm; 

The songsters have perched in the foliage green; 
They have closed their sweet hymns, as if from some alarm; 

No carol is heard where their music has been. 

All is lulled into stillness ; we hear not a sound ; 

The herds from the heat gather under the trees; 
And nothing disturbs the deep, silent profound. 

The waters not ruffled by even a breeze. 
But hark! in the distance what deep sound do I hear? 

Ah, 'tis the roar of the slow-gathering storm ; 
'Tis the thunder so awful whose grandeur is near. 

The storm-god appearing in terrible form. 



24 GIFTS TO 

Now, the winds whistle fury, and fiercely they howl; 

The hurrcane's blast rends the oak from the ground; 
And, like demons of havoc, the storm-spirits scowl; 

The thunder roars madly with terrific sound; 
In the blackness of midnight is veiled the bright sun; 

All is dark, save the lightning, with swift, lurid blaze, 
Lights the clouds, that are boiling in battle begun. 

And war in confusion, a hideous maze. 

The golden grain fields, by the winds tossed in billows, 

In tumults do wave, like the deep, surging sea; 
The grove seems lamenting of cypress and willows. 

As thunders and lightnings unprisoned are free. 
Still increasing the roar, and the flashes' bright glare, 

A sheet of red flame is the low, frowning heaven, 
And the hill-tops a garland of lightnings do wear. 

As the oak into scattering fragments is riven. 

June, 1850. 



THE MUSES. 25 

THE PINE FOREST. 
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. — Byron. 

'Tis beauty's own, the forest wild, 

Where tapering pines, so dense, arise 
That e'en the rays of morning mild 

Fall faintly on the green, that lies 
Entwined with moss, and vines, and flowers, 

Beneath the dark, umbrageous boughs, 
From which each tuneful songster pours 

The sweetest notes his song allows. 

Here, screened from sunlight's searching eye, 

The massive rocks, v/ith moss o'ergrown, 
Sleep on, as in long years gone by; 

And gurgling streams, with music's tone. 
Flow smoothly, or in cascades roar 

Adown the hill's indented sides, 
Until they reach some broader shore. 

Where, sparkling, some bright river glides. 

Soft zephyrs, midst the lofty pines, 

Seem gently sighing, as they move. 
Like melody from spirit climes, 

A plaintive dirge of dying love. 
Here nature every charm unfolds, 

Unmarred by man's ambitions sway. 
Thrice happy he who converse holds 

With her, in groves, from cares away. 



26 GIFTS TO 

The lonely hermit here retires, 

Far distant from the haunts of men, 
Calm are his passions and desires ; 

He seeks but Triune mercy then; 
Secluded here from every care. 

What thoughts sublime, and raptures blest 
Infuse delight, where sorrows were, 

And soothe the troubled soul to rest. 



REVERSIBLE VERSES. 

Much happiness must ever rest 
On him who bears not woman's sway. 
On him who shares with love his breast 
Compunction's pangs must ever pray. 

In Hymen's bowers are always found 
Discordant words, deceit and strife 
True happiness and joy around 
Dwell never in the married life. 

The purest bliss that love imparts 
Dwells ever in the single state 
Is ever shown in wedded hearts 
Friendship's gauze o'er inward hate. 



THE MUSES. 27 

Delight and peace are always theirs 
Who ne'er submit to Hymen's chain 
Whose hearts are joined in wedlock's cares 
But lonely hours of grief obtain. 

In matrimony's state is heard 
Slander's tongue with jealous phrase 
Affection's smooth and gentle word 
In matrimony has no place. 

NOTE — Read in connection the first, third, second and fourth lines and 
an opposite meaning will be obtained. 



A GEM 

From the Song of Songs, 

The Epithalamium of the Poet 

Whose Songs were a Thousand and Five; 

The Sage who spoke Three Thousand Proverbs; 

Dendrologist; Botanist; Zoologist; 

Ornithologist; Erpetologist; and Icthyologist. 

Arise, oh, my fair one, 

My loved one, come away ; 
The rains are past and gone, 

And past is winter's stay; 
The flowers on earth appear. 

And the time of the singing 
Of the birds is at hand; 

The turtle's voice we hear 



28 GIFTS TO 

Softly, gently ringing 

Though the happy land; 
Where leafless boughs were seen 
The fig-tree's buds are green, 
From vines of tender grapes 
A pleasant scent escapes; 
Then, fair, one, let us stray; 
Arise, my love, and come away. 

A Version of the Same 
By good, old Geoffrey Chaucer. 

The fig-tree's buds are green ; 
The turtle's vois is herd, myn owen swete; 
The winter is gon, with all his raines wete. 
Come forth now with thyn eyen columbine. 
Wei fairer ben thj^ brests then ony wine. 

Canterbury Tales. 



A PRAYER. 

Oh, Lord, I kneel before thee 
To worship and adore thee. 
The God of life and glory. 
Revealed in sacred story. 
Triune, just, eternal. 
Enthroned in light supernal. 
Accept a soul's confession, 
Through Jesus' intercession; 



THE MUSES. 29 

Give faith and grant repentance, 
Before the sinner's sentence 
Is ratified and final, 
In heaven's judgment trinal. 
Do not thy mercy harden. 
But grant a sinner pardon. 
Through merits of the Savior, 
For guilt and misbehavior. 
His righteousness imputed. 
Himself be substituted 
For ransom and atonement. 
Secured by sin's dethronement. 
I plead the expiation 
He made for our salvation. 
The perfect satisfaction 
For all the law's infraction; 
Regenerate, enlighten; 
The spirit's vision brighten ; 
Direct a wayward stranger 
To shun the path of danger. 
And, when this life's probation, 
With all its tribulation. 
Its joys, and self-denials, 
Its failures, and its trials, 
In victory are ended. 
Take home my ransomed spirit. 



30 



GIFTS TO 



By angel guards attended, 
Through Christ's atoning merit, 
With saints to praise thy mercy when 
All time shall be no more. Amen. 



AUTUMN. 

It is autumn once more. 

Lone autumn again. 
And the blast drives before 

The leaves and the rain; 
Spring's redolent flowers 

Are withered to earth; 
No more, in her bowers. 

Are music and mirth; 
The birds of bright feather, 

And rapturous song, 
Have left the wild heather; 

They sweetly prolong 
Their departing carol, 

A yearly farewell. 
Then fly from the laurel, 

The hill, and the dell. 



1854. 



THE MUSES. 31 

The harvest so yellow, 

Is stowed in the barn; 
The fruits, ripe and mellow, 

The golden-eared corn, 
Are laid up, in treasure 

'Gainst the coming storm; 
The farmer with pleasure, 

And breast beating warm, 
Sees his mission fulfilled, 

His labors repaid. 
As the waters are chilled. 

And the flowers do fade, 
When the song of sweet notes, 

From the forest no more 
In harmony floats 

The breezes before. 

Now, the forest is clad. 

By wood nymph and faun. 
In vestures all sad. 

That from sunset were drawn. 
When gorgeous hues tinge 

The clouds of the west. 
And mellow tints fringe 

The sun's waning crest. 
Now the sombre of autumn 

Is fainting away ; 



32 GIFTS TO 

On hill-side, and bottom 

Its paintings decay. 
With a low, rustling sound. 

The dirge of the year, 
Fall the leaves to the ground. 

Its mantle so drear. 



THE FARMER. 

Tell me not of the farmer's joy, 

Of his unfailing peace, 
Of his pleasures, without alloy, 

That linger to increase. 

The farmer feels the fang of cares. 

As those of higher state ; 
And sorrow oft his bosom tears. 

Though joys sometimes elate. 

Ye lazy drones, that shun the hive, 

Or but its labors sap, 
Whom luxury has kept alive. 
And carressed in her lap. 

Say not he lives a life of ease. 
Exempt from trouble's train. 

That flowers surround him but to please, 
Or banish grief or pain. 



THE MUSES. 33 

Nor say he is a sordid slave. 

To till the fruitful soil; 
Nor from him all his greatness crave 

To flourish by the spoil. 

He is the Union's golden band; 

And more true greatness has 
Upon his acres few^ of land 

Than kings in palaces. 

Each finished toil, or labor tells, 

This lesson to his ear, — 
Success' mystic secret dwells 
In one word — persevere. 

Then, yield him honors due, and fame 

According to his toil, 
Although he bears the humble name 

Of tiller of the soil. 

October, 1853. 



34 GIFTS TO 

INQUIRY. 

Wild thoughts and emotions, why torture me so? 

And, fancy, why madly bewilder my mind? 
While feelings and passions tumultuously glow, 

And war in confusion no longer confined. 
Sweet peace and sereneness, I pray you, return; 

And, ye fiery billows of passion, recede; 
My bosom no longer, nor brain, may ye burn, 

Nor longer the wildness of phantasy breed. 
Peace of the mind, what an infinite treasure 

That blessed and heaven-born comfort instills; 
If happiness ever contain its full measure, 

'Tis found in the goblet that peacefulness fills. 



THE STREAM OF LIFE. 

As down the stream of life we glide. 

In nature's moorless barge, 
We scarce can mark the varied tide 

That bears its helpless charge. 
So swiftly sweeps the chilling blast 

Of time adown its breast, 
Unveering as the bee, and fast, 

That homeward seeks its rest. 



THE MUSES. 35 

Our vessel, launched in mountain wilds, 
Bedecked with youthful flowers. 
And garlands sweet with beauty's smiles, 
Culled fresh from sacred bowers, 
Glides, gayly dancing, down the stream, 
Through morning's fairest scenes. 
Thus pass happy childhood's dream, 

That knows not yet what sorrow means. 

The living stream grows wide apace. 

And, eddying, ripples on. 
While love-inviting myrtles grace 

The banks, and spreading lawn. 
The fairest nymphs of beauty here 

Sing sweetest melodies; 
But soon our bark must disappear, 

Urged by the ceaseless breeze. 

And soon we pass the laurel's bloom, 

And the sad willow, too. 
That droops its bending limbs, in gloom, 

Dripping with misty dew. 
The voyage now draws near its close. 

The vessel's timbers rotten. 
The freight will in the port repose, 

By men, perchance, forgotten. 

December, 1853. 



36 GIFTS TO 

TWILIGHT.— A SONNET. 

When day with darkness blends, in soft embrace. 

And twilight's curtain veils the hills, and plains, 

When forest songsters cease their vesper strains, 
And o'er the landscape silence broods and claims her place, 
'Tis then that meditation loves to trace 

Fair nature's ways; and then, on fancy's wing. 
Our thoughts are wafted to the bounds of space, 

And homeward to the waiting mind they bring 
A festal freight of rapture and delight; 

As we muse, in reverie profound, 
Spirits unseen around us glide, as light 

And noiseless as the tread of time; and round 
In every whispering grove, imagination's choirs 
Attune to strains divine their unseen lyres. 

January 4th, 1851. 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

In the silent hours of eve, 

When the stars of heaven twinkle, 
And each placid forest leaf 

The dews of vesper sprinkle, 
A sacred voice comes saying 

Forget not friendship's vows; 
E'en though the heart be straying. 



THE MUSES. 37 

As the dove from silvan boughs, 
Still let it fondly linger, 

And muse on friends of youth. 
Ere time's erasing finger 

Had dimmed its early truth. 

June i8, 1851. 



THE CASCADE. 

Dash ever, bright cascade. 

Leap down from thy ledge, 
In the spray that has made 

Vines bloom on thy edge. 
Ye pure, foaming waters, 

As clear as the fount. 
Where Mnemosyne's daughters 

Did bathe on the mount, 
I love your soft murmur. 

In melody sweet. 
As songsters of summer 

Chant from their retreat. 
I have wandered, how often. 

From mortals away, 
To feel my heart soften. 

Beneath thy sweet lay; 



GIFTS TO 



I have sat on thy ledges, 
In laurel's dense shade, 
And watched, from their edges. 

The foam, as it played 
On the clear, dimpled bosom 

Of the whirlpool beneath, 
As white as the blossom 

Of thorn on the heath, 
Till bright pinioned fancy. 

Her wings dewed with mist. 
By strange necromancy. 

And charms that she list, 
Wove round every feeling. 

That rose in my t east, 
A spell that came stealing. 

Like dreams that are blest. 
The Graces came dancing. 

And Nymphs filled the grove. 
And Muses entrancing 

The bosom with love, 
From Hippokrene swift 

With music along. 
Came bringing their gift. 

The passion of song. 



THE MUSES. 39 

THE DEATH OF AN INFANT BROTHER. 

[Grier Orr Ritchey.] 

He died with the death of the flowers, 

Our dear little brother is dead; 
The dirges of autumn with ours 
Are mingled, in sjmipathy wed. 
The groves, in deep mourning, lament 

The dying and dead of the year; 
On their leaves the death colors are blent, 

In drapery sombre and drear. 

The spirit of sorrow prevails, 

And earth of its gladness bereaves. 

Its beauty is lifeless and fails ; 

Through the rustling showers of leaves. 

The lone winds breathe faintly and sigh ; 
The birds hymn their caroled farewell; 

And death, still relentless and nigh. 
At the door of our home rung his knell. 

An infant his victim he chose ; 

Pale sickness soon fevered his brow. 
And blighted young health's early rose, 

That bloomed on his cheek until now. 
Still hope fondly strove with our fears, 

As silent we witnessed his pain. 
In anguish unmeasured by tears, 

And promised his life, but in vain. 



40 GIFTS TO 

Around our sad, grief-stricken band, 
As o'er him the pale shadow drew, 
He pointed his slowly raised hand 

Till, with heaven-lit smile of adieu, 
He rested on mother his eye — 

On her to him dearest of all. 
Then meekly awaited to die. 

When Jesus, the Savior should call. 



For Christ the assurance has given, 

When children he welcomed and blest, 
"Of such is the kingdom of heaven;" 

The children shall enter His rest. 
When that brief, little life was transplanted- 

Two summers the flower of our joy. 
Glad anthems by angels were chanted; 

He's saved where no death can destroy. 



Night waned, and the morning arose, 

With gloom and with grief overspread, 
For quiet, and silent repose 

Denoted the sleep of the dead. 
On the wings of the sad, dewy morn 

His spirit was wafted on high. 
To dwell with the sainted new-born. 

In mansions of love in the sky. 



I 

THE MUSES. 41 

In vestures of whiteness they clad 

His cold, and inanimate clay, 
Then weeping, lamenting, and sad, 

In the coffin they bore him away. 
Now, lonely, he sleeps in the tomb. 
Where all must in silence repose; 
Yet he lives, ever lives in the bloom 
Of the life immortality knows. 

1851. 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

*Tis all in vain ; my pen refuse 

An idle invocation; 
The book of fate we can't peruse; 

Then why our expectation? 
Still, let me ask a wreath of bliss 

To twine its flowers around your brow, 
The zephyrs bland that wreath to kiss. 

And consecrate its beauties now. 
And when the frosts of age shall come. 

Its leaves grow sear and yellow. 
Then, pensive, ope the dimmed Album, 

And think, — this wrote A. Fellow. 



GIFTS TO 



LINES TO LEU LA. 
Now, waft to sweet Leula. my lyre, 

In love's own melodious words, 
The plaintive emotions that fire 

The heart breathng over thy chords. 

Let the murmuring zephyrs that sigh. 
And the n3nnphs that inhabit the grove 

Be the only auditors nigh 

To list to the lay of my love. 

When first the young passions expand 
In the bosom, unsullied and pure, 

Like the leaves of the rose-bud, when fanned 
By spring's sweetest breath and demure; 

When ecstacies kindle the soul, 

And thrill the young nerves with delight, 
While fancy, all free from control. 

Brings joy to the heart from her flight; 

It was then the young Leula I loved, 
With a pure and rapturous zeal; 

My heart by no other was moved. 
No passion but one could it feel. 

The rose-bud of beauty she smiled, 
When first the young Leula I loved. 

Then full blown it bloomed in the wild ; 
Alas, from its charms that I roved. 



THE MUSES. 43 

But the dawn's sweet enchantment has fled, 

The zenith of bliss growing dim; 
The rose's sweet prime it has sped, 

And fading it droops on the limb. 

The garlands of Hymen may never 

Encircle the clues of our fate, 
But thy image of beauty shall ever 

Be truly my heart's constant mate. 



ADIEU TO THE PLOUGH. 

Adieu to the plough; 

I'm leaving it now, 
And I bid it a friend's farewell; 

I've followed it hours, 

Through heat, and shov/ers. 
Yet I leave it a friend's farewell. 

With a vigorous pace. 

And a plough-boy's grace, 
Through the fogs and the dews of morn, 

I've gone to the plough, 

That I'm leaving now. 
To turn the glebe for the verdant com. 



I have toiled away 
Through the sultry day, 
Until evening appeared at last, 
Then blessed the still night 
For the respite bright 
Her shadows were bringing fast. 

There's much to destroy 

The husbandman's joy 
Dejection's fang often tears 

Yet pleasures most dear 

In his cottage appear 
To banish the burden of cares. 

I have often strayed. 

To the friendly shade, 
From my labor, in pensive mood. 

When with nature's page 

Did my thoughts engage, 
As I mused in the solitude. 

While the hum of the bees. 

On the blooming trees. 
The wild bird's song, with plumage bright, 

And the gurgling rills 

From the neighboring hills 
Afforded me purest delight. 



THE MUSES. 45 

To drink of the fount 

At the muse's mount, 
How oft have I wished to be gone; 

To draw from the well 

Where pure waters swell, 
And hunt the philosopher's stone. 

So, my mind to engage 

In the sapient page, 
The plough I'll leave for learning's path; 

And attempt to climb 

The mountain sublime, 
Where wisdom her temple hath. 

Adieu to the flowers 

Of dear rural bowers. 
To each scene that I'm leaving now; 

Farewell to all. yet 

I ne'er can forget 
The days when I followed the plough. 



GIFTS TO 



THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE. 

[On the Houser Farm. Wayne Township.] 

Then the whining school boy. with his satchel 
And shining morning face, trudging, like snail. 
Unwillingly to school. — Shak. 

Yon ruin that stands on the hill. 

Now mouldering in silent decay, 
Marks the rustic, old school-house where still 

Fond memory loves to delay. 
The grove of tall chestnuts that hung 

O'er the playground our childhood enjoyed. 
Where often the merry laugh rung. 

The woodman's rude hand has destroyed. 
Alas, the sad change that appears 
In the flight of a few fleeting years ! 

The old oaken floor has decayed ; 

The brier and the bramble grow rank 
'Midst the low, rotten sleepers that staid 

Down under, long years, in the dank; 
The thistle's blue blossom is seen 

In the place of the old, whittled desk — 
And as zephyrs, o'er landscape and green, 

Wild mountains and vales picturesque 
Will waft its light down — so we all 
Have been scattered at destiny's call. 



I 



THE MUSES. 47 

When each tiny hand was inserted 

Unconscious in fortune's dark urn, 
How varied the lots, and inverted, 

That each one drew forth in return ! 
Deep mysteries then were involving 

The die that was fated to each; 
But time the dark problem is solving, 

Time only that lesson can teach. 
Let reason seek not to reveal 
The secrets that ages conceal. 

Let the future its mysteries keep, 

Till slowly the curtain it lifts. 
Full often the anxious may weep. 

As the barge in its waywardness drifts; 
Full often the parent may sigh. 

And doubt, as the rose-bud expands. 
Whether hope will be blasted and die. 

Or bloom to mature in the lands 
That rival Utopia's clime. 
When over the ocean of time. 

Long since were the scholars dismissed 

To gather no more in the mom, 
And with bands of sweet playmates enlist 

To sport 'neath the white-blossomed thorn ; 
Or in winter's bleak season to meet. 

In spite of the snow and the storm, 



48 GIFTS TO 

Each joyous companion to greet 

With childhood's true friendship and warm. 
Sweet pla5miates and school-days, adieu ! 
Yet our hearts will still linger with you. 

The play-ground of school has been changed, 

With its games and its gay, happy band. 
For the stage, and its actors arranged 

In life's theatre, gloomy and grand ; 
Each one has his part to perform, 

In vain may he shrink from the task. 
And think, by eluding life's storm. 

In pleasures unceasing to bask; 
Stern duty's imperious voice 
Thwarts often the wandering choice. 



THE DEATH OF A COUSIN. 

[John C. Porter.] 

Can it be so, dear cousin, thou 

Hast left the list of those that live, 
That death's damp dews have chilled thy brow. 

And the cold vault, that will not give 
One inmate back to friends again. 

Claims all it can, thy mortal dust; 
And hast thou passed life's broken plain 

So soon, that, one day, all men must? 



THE MUSES. 49 

The final summons, sent by death, 

On night's black pinions reached thine ear ; 
And warning not, it quenched thy breath; 

The morning came ; thou were not here. 
Nor bloom of health, nor vigor strong. 

Nor rose of hope in boyhood's breast 
Could e'er thy day, one hour, prolong ; 

Or shield thee from the stern behest. 

The old year passed ; the new one came, 

But not for thee its days began ; 
Eternity had set its name 

On that which left life's mortal span. 
Ah, yes, thou'rt gone, forever gone ; 

Thy clay to dust; they soul to roam 
Where, immortality put on, 

Thy hope, we trust, is now thy home. 

Feb. 12, 1857. 



ADIEU. 
Sweet girl, a last farewell 

Perhaps, for aye, I take. 
Sad, lingering words that swell. 

And loving hearts do break, 
That rose upon thy breast, 

Pr'y thee that boon give me, 

7 



50 GIFTS TO 

My only, last request 

By which to mind of thee. 
And as the rose-bud trembles. 

When morning zephyrs blow, 
I'll think my love resembles 

Its young and modest glow. 
And when its leaves are faded, 

I'll think its charms endure, 
That time has only shaded 

Its beauties still as pure. 
And every time I kiss 

Its dear, tho' withered leaves 
Shall tell of former bliss, 

And grief that now bereaves, 
And should the heart grow cold, 

The bosom chilled with care, 
'Twill tell, tho' sere and old, 

Love once was faithful there. 
Then, grant my last desire. 

One pledge before we part, 
To keep alive the fire 

That glows within my heart. 

May 6, 1853. 



THE MUSES. 51 

THE ENDLESS PATH. 

This poem was recited at a Set Entertainment ot the Union Literary 
Society of Glade Run Academy, March 20, 1854. 

Ergo aderat promissa dies, et tempora 
Purcae debita complerant. — Virg. 

Oh, muse of song, attune my wayward lyre, 
And each new strain with melody inspire, 
While wafted back on bright-eyed fancy's wing, 
Of golden days, and joys gone past I sing. 

Behold yon mouldering ruin, by the hill. 
Where, murmuring onward, winds the limpid rill; 
Where oaks and forest pines majestic tower. 
And warbling songsters forth their wild notes pour ; 
Environed here, in silvan solitude, 
Once learning's fane, the rustic school-house, stood. 
Here oft the clustering swarms of rural youth 
Were sent to seek the rudiments of truth. 
Delightful scene, to view the young and gay, 
In pleasure's train, seek wisdom's rugged way ! 
A time arrived to bid farewell the joys of school. 
And leave for aye the sceptered master's rule; 
Suffused with hope was many a beaming eye, 
Yet others wept when parting hours grew nigh. 

Adieu, what sadness o'erwhelms the soul. 
As in sorrow that last word is spoken, 

When before us the dark billows roll. 

And young friendship' sembraces are broken. 



52 GIFTS TO 

Nobly eminent o'er all was seen 
A form in boyhood's bloom, whose sparkling eye 
Bespoke a lofty purpose ; and whose mien 
Predicted fame in enterprises high. 
Elate with hope, he leaves his native hills, 
And all the joyous haunts of childhood's home. 
Enchanting scenes, and wild, his vision fills. 
And all his thoughts in climes elysian roam ; 
Strange ecstasies inspire his ardent breast ; 
Young passion's nymphs, in joy, burst newly forth 
From out the cells that sealed their latent rest, 
And charmed his soul with gifts of all their worth. 
As leaving all things dear, his bosom loved. 
Turned from his path, and on a moss-clad rock reclined, 
He thus poured forth the plaintive thoughts, that moved, 
Like billows, ocean-tossed, within his mind ; — 
How beautiful, ye gorgeous woods, 

Ye murmuring streams, and blushing flowers. 
Wild, and romantic solitudes. 

Cascades, ravines, and fairy bowers. 
And tuneful warblers of the dell. 
How beautiful are all, and fair! 
Profusely here all pleasures dwell; 

In mingled melody I hear 
The music sweet of unseen lyres, 
Of falling waters, and of choirs 
Invisible, yet singing there; 

And birds that carol hymns of bliss; 



I 



THE MUSES. S3 

Enchanting scenes fill all the air ; 

Delight in full perfection is. 
But I, this pleasure pure, and sweet, 

This joy, no longer may I taste; 
Ye scenes no more my steps shall greet ; 

Fate's changeless fiat bids me haste. 
Then, all by me so fondly loved, 

Each sparkling brook, each hill and dell, 
Midst which so oft I've gladly roved. 

Perchance forever, fare ye well. 

Wild tumults in his throbbing bosom rage. 

And warring passions constant conflicts wage ; 

Now joy, like morning's sun, cheers all his path. 

And dire regret now, on his troubled soul. 

Pours forth, like fire, the vials of her wrath. 

But hope, on buoyant wing, points to the goal, 

Dissolves the frowning clouds, brings quiet peace. 

And bids distracting doubts and cares to cease. 

More light his step, and lighter beats his heart, 

As her effulgent rays their light impart. 

On, onward still, with agile step, he hies. 

And every frowning barrier defies; 

Upon the verge sublime of jutting ledges, 

He loves the terrors of their fearful edges ; 

Unsated, views the panoramic field; 

Then sat him down to muse, while thought revealed 



54 GIFTS TO 

From nature's oracles responses sought, 

Which may rejoice, but satisfy him not. 

Thus, learning nature's lineaments to trace, 

He grew familiar with her radiant face. 

"Oh, could the mind burst from its tenement 

Of cumbrous clay, e'en as the butterfly 

Unprisoned, when its chrysalis is rent. 

And could it free, and unimpeded hie 

From world to world, and learn the true, and real; 

Discovering love in wisdom's unknown lands 

And find the good, and our long-sought ideal. 

And clasp it all in memory's golden bands," 

I heard him say. 

And then ambition came. 
And kindled in his breast its deathless flame; 
Approaching now, he stands before its shrine. 
And summons every power that lay supine. 
To reach the dazzling crown in honor's fane, 
As thus he hears the notes of her refrain ; — 
Mortal, the pathway to glory 

Is flower-strewn with pleasures ; 
Its vistas resound with the story ; 

Of fame and its treasures. • 

Press on to its golden dominion; ' 

'Tis wreathing the garlands and bay 
To crown thee its favorite minion. 

And deck thee with regal display. 1 



THE MUSES. 

When the dews of the vesper are sprinkling 

The hills, and the valleys afar, 
See, in yon bright heavens twinkling, 

A lone, and a lustrous star. 
Its brightness, though dim to the vision 

Of sordid, and earth-loving mortals, 
Will guide thee to glory elysian ; 

In splendor will open the portals, 
And thou, on its acme eternal, 

Mayst taste of the raptures of fame; 
And bright are the laurels, and vernal. 

Which then will emblazon thy name. 



Wild, and impetuous as the storm's career. 

His high- wrought ardor crushes every fear; 

That dazzling star, beacon to the goal of fame. 

Invites him on to honor and a name; 

Of thousand ways to seek for glory's prize, 

A narrow path winds obvious to his eyes ; 

Athene waiting at its exit stands; 

He pauses — stops, and joins her sober bands. 

The ancient tome's forgotten lore. 

And things abstruse, but seldom kenned before, 

To him were lucid as the noon-tide's ray; 

His genius halts not, where the rest must stay. 

But the fine clues of destiny unseen 

Can not be traced by mortal's finite skill; 



56 GIFTS TO 

The fatal sisters sit behind the screen ; 

And spin, or snap the golden cord at will. 

'Twas in the dead, hushed hour of silent night 

When autumn's ruby leaves fall rustling light, 

And solemn. The drizzling clouds shed dismal 

And continuous rains; whilst in abysmal 

Vaults of darkness the blinded stars were veiled. 

The sober hours, on leaden pinions sailed. 

But slowly by. The pale, and feeble rays I 

Of a solitary lamp, like a haze 

Bedimmed, streamed from a window's niche on high. 

And in a worn and antique chamber, by i 

Its faint light diffused, poring intent | 

Upon an ancient tome, which time had sent I 

From hoary ages down, there pondered one 

No more in boyhood's bloom, his first work done, 

His sparkling eye was dimmed, yet more intense 

Did burn the quenchless flame's deep radiance. 

Ambition's fire, within his ardent breast. 

Worn by the troubled spirit of unrest. 

He raised his wearied eye from off the page; 

His forehead high, expansive, did presage 

Capacity for deepest thought, was traced 

In lines that midnight vigils there had placed. 

The signs of mental strife in wisdom's fane. 

As when the moaning night-winds do complain. 

And sighing wail the death-dirge of despair, 

So, from his soul, distracted with its care. 



THE MUSES. 57 

He utters eager words, which were desires 
Prophetic death's unheard approach inspires. 
He said : — 

"For many days and nights I've gone 
A traveler ardent on, still tireless on; 
The hills receded, and the mountains rose, 
Yet every step seemed farther from the close. 
Of my now endless journey. Monarch death, 
I feel thy touch, and yield my failing breath ; 
Ope wide thy door ; I greet thee, faithful friend ; 
I would behold where truth's bright pathways tend." 

And when the morning came, his fellows found 

His pallid corse in ice-cold fetters bound. 

His lifeless cheek, cold as its kindred clay, 

Like old Italia's bard's of love's sweet lay, 

Upon the volume loved too long, too well, 

Reposed, as on a couch of down. Nor swell. 

Nor glow his feelings now with burning love 

Of that bright, brain-born phantom, which above 

His grasp winged ever its enchanting flight; 

He passed the door of death: and through its night 

Emerged upon the shores of endless light. 



58 GIFTS TO 

ODE TO CONTENTMENT. 

Contentment, sweet angel, 

Come, dwell in this breast, 
For soon couldst thou change all 

Its passions unblest, — 
Its grief and its sadness 
To joy and to gladness, 
And calm its wild billows that rage, 
Oh, come, and my sorrows assuage. 
Bright seraph in heaven, 

To this heart long a stranger, 
Half broken, and riven 
By tumult and danger. 
It calls to thee flown to thy gem-spangled dome, 
Return and inhabit thy long vacant home. 

When ardent and glowing 

In hope's early dawn, 
Unconscious, unknowing 
How soon may be gone 
Youth's blisses and pleasures, 
And hope's golden treasures. 
It prized not the solace that flows 
From thy fountain to sweeten our woes; 
And youth will not falter 
To sacrifice peace 



THE MUSES. 59 

On ambition's altar 
For fame and for ease, 
Which fly as we follow, and lure but to tire us, 
As children that seek for the treasures of Iris. 

The heart is an ocean 

Now tranquil, serene; 
Now wild with commotion, 

Where calmness hath been; 

Contentment, its quiet, 

A heavenly fiat 

Its passions tempestuous to still. 

Then, exile, thy mission fulfill, 

Return, not to vanish. 

But ever remain 
My sorrow to banish, 
My heart to sustain. 
And be to my spirit futurity's token 
Its dream of existence shall never be broken. 



LINES TO "SID." 



Oh, time, how swiftly thou hast past 
Since last her hand I pressed; 

And memory's self seems fading fast 
Of Sid in the far, far West. 



6o GIFTS TO 

Does grace with beauty softly vie 

Where love was wont to rest; 
And sweetness still beam from the eye 

Of Sid in the far, far West? 

Or has the dawn of beauty gone, 

Its dream and visions blest; 
And love's sweet spirit partly flown 

From Sid in the far, far West? 

Does she ever dream of her girlhood's home. 
The hill-sides steep with wild flowers drest, 

The piny vale where bright streams roam, 
Fair Sid in the far, far West? 

Thus, oft I muse in evening dreams. 

My boyhood's love confest; 
And still, me-thinks, it sometimes seems 

Fair Sid in the far, far West. 



THE MUSES. 6i 

REMINISCENCES. 

Home of my youth, I love thee still, 
Each brook and grove, each vale and hill. 
Oh, envious time, dissolve the tie 

That binds me prisoner in thy car; 
Loosed, like some captive doomed to die, 

I'd haste me from its prison bar; 
I would forget my manhood's years. 

Burst from the strife of fellow men. 
Retrace life's path bedewed with tears, 

And be a gleesome child again. 

Ah, memory; dear, deceiving friend, 
Unasked, thou dost my word attend, 
And leadst me back, as though my prayer, 
Were answered, and I now were there. 

Home of my youth, ambition's flame 
Prompts not my pen to give thee name; 
Nor, with the gauze of vagrant dreams, 
Weave fancy's web around thy scenes; 
But whilst affection's golden wand 

Directs my thoughts this space beyond. 
Which I have passed, back to the morn 
That dawned upon life's early day, 
Me-thinks I see fresh joys adorn. 

Once more, youth's bright and flowery way. 



62 GIFTS TO 

Yon turbid stream, where then it strayed. 
Winds through the same, entangled glade. 
Where oft we boyish anglers went. 
And spent the hours, in sweet content. 
With rod in hand, and anxious look, 
As swarms of fish dart through the brook. 
To find the tiny victim lured. 
And on the treacherous barb secured. 



CARMEN NAT ALE. 

Xatales grate numerasf — Hor. Ep. II. Lib. 2. 

August eleventh once more? It is; yes, it must be; 
Oh. memory, too faithful. I fain would distrust thee, 
One date would erase from thy page. 

Swift time, who dost envy and steal our young hours, 
Relentless as autumn, that withers the fiowers. 
Thee, old and decrepit with age. 

I fain with one epithet more would assail; 
I'd call thee deceiver, nor credit thy tale, 
Of pleasures departed for aye; 

Of hopes that are blasted and youthful days wasted. 
And joys all flown ere their nectar was tasted, — 
All gone, and forever away. 



THE MUSES. 63 

Stem monitor, soon — oh, too soon — thou art here, 
To summon my heart to its audit, — a year 
Of Ufe's fated span to review; 

What changes of feeling, or sorrow or mirth may 
Have wrought in its currents, the lapse of a birthday, 
When cares of the past wake anew. 

But why dost thou falter, my muse, in thy song. 
To utter the numbers so fervent that throng. 
The days of the past to recount? 

Ah, me-thinks I can hear thee reprove me, and say, 
Thou never hast tasted the leaf of the bay. 
Nor dreamed on the double-hilled mount, 

Parnassus, where dwell the Pierian girls; 
Nor drunk of the murmuring water that purls 
From Hippocrene's fabulous fount. 

Thus, timid and modest, thou dost not aspire. 
And the bosom can feel too deep for the lyre. 
And, wayward, my rhyme and my verse, 

Do both seem unwilling the silent emotion. 
And shadowy forms down in feeling's deep ocean. 
In measure precise to rehearse. 

Then grant me, enchantress, auspicious Imagin- 
Ation, thy favor my task to engage in; 
Retracing life's voyage, to stem 



64 GIFTS TO 

Its river meandering back to its spring. 
Nor stop but to look at some beautiful thing, 
Or pick from its valley a gem. 

But yesterday's morn, and I reveled with joy. 
In life's primal visions delighted, a boy; 
And the world was an Eden to me. 

Then a choir of young passions, and feelings new-born, 
Like the swift, humming hive on a sweet spring mom, 
As it hovers o'er blossom and tree, ji| 

Went forth to the fountains of beauty and truth, 
With all of the love and the wonder of youth. 

To gather the best they afford. ■ 

And yet not like the hive, for its treasures remain 
A banquet, when winter winds whiten the plain. 
In the cells of the honey-comb stored; 

But the sweets from the cells of the fresh-budding heart, 
Like shadows, in mist and in vapor depart, 
Nor wait for the change of the year. 



IN BOYHOOD. 

I. 

There was one that I loved in my boyhood's dawn, 

The first and the fairest born 
To reveal the ideal not yet withdrawn 

From my dream of love's young morn. 



THE MUSES. 65 

2. 

And her bosom it glowed with an angel's flame, 

An innocent love for me, 
With a passion too pure for an earthly name 

To sully its purity. 

3- 
And her image is yet in my inmost heart, 

And her beauty in its core; 
And that vision of love will never depart, 

That beautiful girl of yore. 

4- 
For, united in plighted ineffable love, 

Whilst all of the years wax hoar. 
Our fidelity, stronger than time, shall prove 

That spirits may still adore. 

5- 
And I would that I could, after Dante of old, 

With vision beatified, frame 
A new song in new words that are yet to be told 

Of a Beatrice lacking fame; 

6. 

A maiden the Shepherd of Ettric had seen. 

But not as she seemed to me. 
Ere he sang what the maiden Kilmeny had been, 

And thought "what a woman may be." 



66 GIFTS TO 

THE LAND OF LETHE. 

i 

This poem was recited by the author at a Literary Entertainment, Sept. ' 
29, 1854. It was written just after reading "Night Thoughts," "Course of 
Time," and "Paradise Lost." ' 

An ancient bard, rapt in the web of thought, ' 

Went forth the tuneful sister's love to woo 
In grove, with more than Tempe's beauties fraught, 
Whence he the muses' inspiration drew, 
Sequestered far from rude intruder's view. 
Whose phrase profane blasphemes the sacred Nine. 
Garlands of silvan flowers, bedecked with dew, 
And culled f /om beauty's home, his brows entwine ; 
In nature's fane he breathes the breath that makes divine. 

His hand upon the silent lyre reclined, 
While long he mused profound the thoughtful theme. 
A laurel rose, with clasping ive twined. 
Up o'er his bower, where nymphs of beauty dream ; 
And, gemmed with spray, glides past a limpid stream, 
Its mossy banks damasked with lovely flowers; 
Made for Imagination's haunt they seem; 
When, see! a herald from the heaven lowers. 
And flits in cloud of awful darkness to his bowers. 

Its trust performed, back to its distant realm 
The strange and unexpected herald flies ; 
As dancing feather light, which whirlwinds whelm 
And waft in ceaseless circles to the skies. 



THE MUSES. 67 

So saw the bard surprised his guest arise. 
Another song and strange inspires his soul, 
Another harp with hand expert he tries; 
Whilst unobserved, and listening, near I stole, 
These words, me-thinks, I penned correct upon a scroll. 



Go, poet, sing the truth this symbol teaches; 

Say, note the tendril of the clinging vine; 

Untrained, see how spontaneous it reaches. 
And in its grasp the empty air doth twine. 

Ye cannot name its tendency a lie; 

Ye cannot say the twig, 'twas its design 
To clasp within its coil, a silken tie. 

Did not, though absent, still somewhere exist. 



Now, hope and fear, that with each other vie, 
Felt in the heart, like stars seen through a mist. 

Point always onward to a life to come. 

No more are these, thou mayst with truth insist, 
Fallacious than the force that finds a home 

Within the vine and coils its spiral round. 



As sang the bard when night had arched her dome, 
Ambition self doth teach this lore profound. 

That earnest yearning for futurity. 
That hope that neither space nor time can bound ; 



68 GIFTS TO 

The same that prompts the school-boy, in his glee, 
To climb the tallest sapling, limb by limb. 
Till perched, with triumph blest, his mates may see 

Him in the waving top, where they would swim 
With dizziness that would his rivals be. 

And when the mirthful bevy swiftly skim 
Athwart the dimpling lake, in vessel free. 
And, having landed on the sedgy brink, 
Stroll underneath the umbrageous canopy 
Of arching foliage, and thoughtful link 
The scene to future days by name of each 
Carved rudely on the trees, the thoughts they think 
Proclaim a mind death's arrow shall not reach. 

To be forgotten, and forever more! 

Instinctive horror, dread surpassing speech. 
Appalls the soul, as at destruction's door; 

It is a thought the heart cannot endure. 

And slow its vital tides meandering pour 
Their currents through the veins. But less secure, 

And only less, existence seems, could feigned 

Annihilation endless death insure. 
'Tis sweet to live in memory retained; 

And love of fame is but an echo sent, 

Responsive to the life to be attained. 
Across the line of time, when raised or rent 

And sable veil the unseen shall reveal. 



THE MUSES. 69 

To slumber on oblivion's lap, as pent 
In prison's dungeon cell, not chains of steel, 

Nor fate's decree, nor mines of gold could bind. 

Or force, or bribe humanity to feel 
Itself without a hope or fear resigned. 

Go, poet, say the heart is its own seer. 

And wiser far than Pythoness enshrined 
At Delphi's fane. Its oracle revere. 

Nor doubt this same response found oft as sought. 

From circling round the worlds, of years a year, 
And midst the wilderness of stars, I've brought 

The song I sing. And over land and sea 

Across the Elysian fields, and not 
E'en Tartarus unsearched was left to be, 

Nor any realm of Hades. Go, poet, say 

The word, and sing the song I sing to thee. 
There is no Lethe's stream to wash away 

The past; nor can be found a Lethe's land. 

To solve a problem of the ancient day, 
'Tis but a fabled myth the poets planned. 

"Can happiness exist in memory stained 

With evil deeds?" To grace let nature hand 
The work, and wait the answer thence obtained 

Yet say, from evil deeds and thoughts refrain. 

As sung the bard, within itself contained 
The deathless mind can make a hell to pain. 

Or heaven to bless the life that never dies. 



70 GIFTS TO 

There is an unseen volume, not in vain 

By memory kept, whose lines contain 
A record plenary of all we do 
In life, or think, or feel, or can devise. 

Immortal conscience, to be just and true, 

One day shall break the finished volume's seal, 
And read, and read, and read its pages through. 

Illegible no line shall then conceal 

Its sense indelible though latent now; 
Nor shall be given any pause to steal — 

A boon eternity cannot allow — 

From that perusal which shall have no end, 
A rest for wearied mind or sleepless brow. 

Remorse's tameless furies shall attend 

And limping penalties that sure, if late 

Shall overtake the fugitive, and rend 

His soul with direr pangs than changeless fate 
Decreed to Ixion with serpents bound 

To his perpetual wheel ; or to the great 

Offence of Sisyphus who never found 

Reprieve from rolling up a mountain's side 
A rock that downward to the level ground 

Rebounded from the top, his strength defied; 
Or to the crime of Tantalus athrist 
And starving ever, yet for aye denied 

To taste the waves that into ripples burst 
So near his lips, or luscious fruits that close 
Around him dangled, earth's select and first. 



THE MUSES. yi 

With conscience, mental Nemesis, that knows 
No guile, two witnesses shall summoned stand. 
And pore intent with bended heads o'er those 

Accounts unbalanced in the years that spanned 
The good and ill of life. Upon her right 
Approval smiles joyous with ready hand 

To give the just reward ; whilst, clad with might 
To punish, on her left remorse nor day 
Nor night from the sad page withdraws her sight. 

A world of mortal things shall glide away. 
And man shall with a weeping eye discern 
His long-loved earth in spasms convulsive sway 

And reel, its dark abysses yawn and burn. 

Symptoms of sickening nature's dissolution. 
Ere worlds on worlds to primal chaos turn, 

When, standing under rainbow's bright effusion, 

On earth and sea, the angel shall proclaim, 
With awful oath, time's final revolution. 

But yet immortal memory shall claim 

Exemption from the wrecks and ruins made 
By dying time ; nor shall the empty name 

Of Lethe then on any land be laid; 

For, of itself, the mind can not forget. 
And fleeting thoughts, that only seem to fade, 

Shall rise again when earth's last star is set. 



7^ GIFTS TO 

THE HIDDEN KINGDOM. 

A TRADITION. 

At the foot of Imber mountain 

In lone Liura's vale, 
Beside Nemosa's fountain, 

Tradition tells a tale. 

That a cottage stood of old, 

Though no trace can now be told. 

For time, that cannot linger. 
Beckoned ruin with his finger 

To come and quite erase 
Every sign and every trace. 

Tradition tells a story 

Which me-thinks perchance is true, 
For one, whose locks were hoary, 

Told me all I sing to you ; — 
In the woods yet roamed the redman. 

In the wild the panther prowled. 
Round the corpse of many a dead man. 

The hungry wolves defiant howled. 

Thus did tradition's tenor hold ; — 
Before refinement's billows rolled. 

With emigration's throng. 
To the savage western hills, 
Resistless as the strong 
Rushing tempest where it wills. 



THE MUSES. 73 

The dauntless pioneer, 
With his family, all he had in 

The world for hope or fear, 
To be either glad or sad in, 
Built his solitary cabin 

On the verge of the frontier, 
With neither priest nor Rabbin 

To be his overseer. 
Himself the typic freeman. 

His home, a school and church and state; 
No landsman and no seaman 

So truly master of his fate, 
The democrat that is to be. 
By right to vote a sovereign free. 

Thus did the legend's tenor hold, — 

That from a distant home, 
Where fashion's gilded carriage rolled 

Past many a lofty dome, 
A wife and husband came. 
Unknown their line and name. 

And she was fair as mountain flower 
That blooms on wilds of Imber, 

A damask rose with beauty's dower 
Beneath its lofty timber. 

Her nameless traits and ripened graces 
The bard may feel but cannot write, 

Nor even tell their plainest traces, 
That all may see and know by sight. 



74 GIFTS TO 

And clearly read their meaning, 

Made her a queen elected, 
No ballot intervening, 

For her high place selected 
By right of worth as well as birth. 
To reign and be queen mother 
In any quarter of the earth, 

To rule and reign a queen unseen. 
As never did another. 

Save one who kin to her had been. 

Her husband had a common look. 

Seemed just an average man. 
No gait or mien or style he took 

Placed him in rear or van; 
The warmest heart, the clearest mind 

Made him intensely human; 
With strictest judgment mild and kind, 

And gentle as a woman. 
He ruled by love, his word was law 

Too kind to be resisted; 
He had no need the sword to draw. 

For none on wrong insisted; 
His wise and prudent goodness stood 

For justice with precision. 
And wrought for right and others' good 

Invincible decision. 



THE MUSES. 75 

He had no need to be obeyed, 

He never asked but it was done; 
His merest wish a scepter swayed 

That made the wish the act begun; 
His self-possession never swerved, 

No act the least recession ; 
His subjects' weal he always served. 

And furthered their progression; 
The One man where there had been ten, 

The sapiens Vir the Stoics bring, 
A man picked from a thousand men, 

And every inch a rightful king. 

Thus ran tradition's story 
By one whose locks were hoary ; — 
In lone Liura's wood 
He built his cottage rude; 

It was not an Indian long house, 
But distant looked the same; 

Nor was it fort or strong house 
In origin or name. 

Its height and width were equal, 
Its length three times its side. 

Its plan might make it sequel 
Derived from Hebrew guide. 

Now strange to say, surprising. 
This cottage proved to be 

A royal palace rising 
From observation free. 



GIFTS TO 



A rustic, royal palace, 
The last a kingdom hidden 

Remote from fear or malice. 
By inward law forbidden, 

Could ever build or need. 
Its hour was growing late 

And called for watchful heed; 
It faced its fatal date, 

The end was drawing near ; 
It could not die before its time, 

Another star must yet appear, 
Like one of old that marked its prime. 



Night's raven pinions, gemmed beneath 

With thousand twinkling stars, 
Expanding wide o'er hill and heath, 

A sombre shadow cast; 
A thousand stars, in crystal cars. 

In dreamy lustre past. 
The silver moon's bright crescent swam 

All lightly high in space ; 
Chaste Dian stood sedate and calm. 

With queenly radiant face. 
Upon its arc, like orient m.aid 

In light gondola gliding, 
Her silver wand her right hand swayed. 

In fairest realm presiding; 



THE MUSES. 77 

Across her snowy shoulder hanging, 

Her flexile bow and quiver 
Of arrows, silver tipped, were clanging; 

Then on a winged nimbus riding. 
That did the ether sever, 

The virgin huntress came to keep 
A vigil in a forest home. 

When all the songsters rest asleep, 
When prowling panthers fearless roam. 

And round their prey the gray wolves rally, 
A vigil in that forest home, 

In lone Liura's valley. 

For thrice six happy summers 
The heir apparent fairer grew. 

These royal, strange new comers 
But watched alert and waited through 

Appointed time predicted 
To eras, epochs, years and hours 

Their lives and reigns restricted. 
And well defined their rights and powers. 

The heir apparent, well prepared 
In all the kingdom's rites and duties 

To be by her so briefly shared. 
Three hours to reign in all its beauties, 

Her two lives lived most duly, 
With playmates romping glad and wild, 

But near the throne most truly 
This only kingdom's only child. 



78 GIFTS TO 

It was coronation night, 

Against the wall an antique clock, 
There almost hidden out of sight, 

Shut fast behind an iron lock. 
Rang slowly out the midnight hour. 

An old man stood with head bowed low, 
Who seemed endowed with priestly power. 

And now in solemn voice and slow 
He read from out a Sibyl scroll. 

Its last three lines in language old. 
Then burnt the worn out parchment roll. 

An end within itself foretold. 
He softly passed out into night; 

With searching eye he scanned the sky ; 
A halo, pale with mystic light, 

Was round the crescent moon on high; 
Within its ring three diamond stars 

An equal sided trigon drafted; 
A thin cloud soon their sparkle mars, 

Across by silent zephyrs wafted. 
The aged man came quickly in; 

"The signs," he said, "fixed and predicted, 
To guide the rites we now begin 

Are clearly on the sky depicted." 
A table, shaped as an ellipse. 

Was piled with paraphernalia. 
That many modern thrones eclipse 

With rich and rare regalia. 



THE MUSES. 79 

That kings and queens are wont to wear; — 

Old crowns and scepters, wands and gems, 
Gold laces, purple robes and fair, 

Strange emblems, symbols, diadems 
From north and south, from east and west, 

An Inca plume, an Aztec cross, 
A G3^sy charm, an Arab crest; 

And lest the list be at a loss. 
An Indian bow and arrow; 

Strange signets, signs, and other things 
Not for the human world too narrow. 

Forth from the dark this crowning brings. 

With dignity and queenly grace, 
Upon a dais made of wood 

Ozel assumed her proper place. 
And for a moment thoughtful stood 

Vithin its rim of roscid roses; 
Then faced the east and knelt in calm 

Firm trust that in her breast reposes. 
With upstretched arms and palm to palm, 

A pointed arch that means the sky. 
Her eyes were closed and face upturned ; 

Her parents passed in silence by, 
A silver crown, with gems that burned. 

They held, with arms crossed like an ex ; 
And as they passed, on either side. 

Out to the throne room cube's annex. 
The crowning honor they divide; 



8o GIFTS TO 

His left, her right hand lightly place 
The jeweled crown on Ozel's head. 

As she arose with queenly grace. 
And faced the west the east instead. 



And when the sunbeams glinted 

Athwart the red horizon's ring, 
And on the dewy landscape printed 

The songs the birds began to sing, 
Ozel was clad in peasant's dress, 

A pyre of royal things afire 
Was blazing in a hidden vale. 

The old man sat and watched expire 
The flame, then cast the ashes pale 

Upon the winds and waters near. 
The royal jewels rich and rare, 

The precious stones and things of gold. 
He buried deep, none knoweth where, 

He kept the secret still untold, 
And with a smile of duty done. 

He passed from view another man. 



The royal line had reached its end ; 

No one could tell when it began, 
By a decree not to be penned. 

But hinted in those "last three lines.' 



THE MUSES. ■ 8i 

The father king, the mother queen, 

Without their former royal signs, 
And daughter queen next day were seen 

In common style, but under vow. 
As strict as death, to tell no word 

Of their past lives, nor titles claim; 
Nor have their children ever heard 

Or who they are or whence they came. 



The Hidden Kingdom's work was done. 

For years becoming less and less ; 
Its noble race at length was run. 

And it must sink to nothingness. 
It had been great and strong and good, 

Its silent actions felt and seen, 
Itself and methods understood 

But by itself, and what they mean. 
A scion of its royal stock 

Was one time found in every land. 
The king's door opened at his knock. 

And he was known by shake of hand. 



One only dynasty was all 

This universal kingdom had. 
But it supplied, at others' call. 

Long lines of kings both good and bad. 



82 GIFTS TO 

As landmarks of its past career. 

The "Truce of God" its hands had made. 
The Sect of Friends its own work clear, 

The best Republics owed it aid. 
The world was better for its reig^n ; 

It made for truth and peace and right 
Instead of wTong and grief and pain. 

It gained its ends by will that seemed 
More like to fate than human will. 

To yield or fail it never dreamed : 
Its mission fixed it must fulfill. 

The poet's cue was from its creed. 
When of his song he chose for theme 

That thousands now are glad to read. 
Nor deem it an ideal dream — 

The great fraternity of man 
In closer federated nations: 

A human life on better plan. 
And after these first adumbrations, 

When wrong and crime and force decrease, 

The reign of universal peace. 
When signs were seen the world was ripe 

For its great legacy of good, 
And it was safe a higher type 

Of life and law and brotherhood 
To give in charge to other hands, 

Of right this kingdom ended. 



THE MUSES. 83 

The good seed sown in all the lands 

Was now well kept and tended, 
Held precious, nourished, and well cherished. 

The good seed sown, not yet half grown, 
And not a single seed had perished ; 

A future, goodly harvest shown, 
When wrong and crime and force should cease, 
The reign of universal peace. 

All in a happy neighborhood 

Some families, they say of late, 
Related by both race and blood, 

Now live out in a western state, 
Who, back of generations three. 

Have neither land nor home assigned. 
Have lost their branch of family tree, 

And neither kith nor kin can find. 



IS THERE BALM IX GILEADF 

"Tell me truly I implore, 
there, i* there balm in Gilead? 

Tell me, teU me I implore." 



E. A. Poe. 



Wanderer, anxious, undirected 
In the starless night of error, 

Lift aloft thine eyes dejected 

From that dark abyss of terror. 



84 GIFTS TO 

By the eye of Faith discerning, 

Thou canst through the darkness peer, 
Thou shalt see the Day Star burning 

With a radiance bright and clear, 
See the Orient Star beams burning 

With a splendor calm and clear. 



In that beacon Light believing. 

Follow from deep mazes guided. 
Thou wilt find it undeceiving, 

Find a resting place provided, 
On the Rock of Ages standing 

Not by storm or tempest shaken, 
Beula's land thy view commanding. 

Not by error captive taken, 
Beula newly far expanding, 

Thou shalt see the Day Spring coming 
Robed in beauty from the skies. 



Thou shalt live, a branch now blighted, 
On the deathless Vine engrafted. 

Thou shalt feel, no more benighted, 
A pure incense sweetly wafted, 

Breathing peace within thy soul. 
Feel a heavenly incense wafted 

Lighting love within thy soul. 



THE MUSES. 85 

Then consoled and hopeful knowing, 

With delight and peace and love, 
There is balm in Gilead flowing 

Odor laden from above. 
Through the pathless blue expansion, 

Far beyond the sky of skies. 
Thou hast seen a golden mansion, 

Where its perfume never dies. 
In that glorious, golden palace, 

Where the angels harp and sing, 
Thou wilt quaff a blissful chalice 

Filled from life's immortal spring, — 
From a fountain ever flowing. 

Where the choral angels sing 
Where the tree of life is growing, 

From Siloa's living spring. 

THE SAM I AN IVI, A REVERY. 

In the land of enchcintment enrapt, 

In the twilight of revery lost, 
I sit at my window and gaze 
At the maze on the panes, — 
At the crystalline maze 
Of the silvery grains 

That besprinkle the panes 
That are chequered and mapped 

With friezes and flecks of the frost, — 



86 GIFTS TO 

That are penciled with intricate lines 
Into strangest, artistic designs, 
With leaves and with flowers 
Into garlands and bowers, 

With plants and with vines 
The botanist never defines. 

I sit at my window and gaze. 
And breathe on the veil of the haze. 
And behold the bewildering maze, — 
The soft, whirling maze 
Of the fast falling snow, — 
The feathery, white winged swarms 

Of the flakes of the snow, 
That are calm from the storms; 
And as silently light 
And as silvery white 
As the down of the cygnet, they whirl, 
They gyrate and eddy and curl 
Into fleecy pavilions 
For hundreds of millions 
Of airy, light fairies. 
Whose life never varies, 

Through immortal youth. 
From gladness and truth. 



And my window below, 
There is sleeping the snow, 



THE MUSES. 87 

And I'm far away now 

From the sad furrowed brow, — 
From the aching of brain, 
And the heart sore with pain, 

And the agonized shriek 
Of the victim of wrong, 

And the groans of the weak 
Overcome by the strong, — 

From the broad beaten way 

Where, by night and by day. 
The basilisk basks with the asp, 

And the viper and adder at play, 

Lie in wait for their prey, 
Ever ready, with venomous pangs, 
To fasten their poisonous fangs 

In the unwary feet 

That stray near their retreat; 
And serpents that grasp 
In their treacherous clasp 

To crush in the toils 

Of their pitiless coils 
The unwary when 
They tread near their den. 

And I'm glad with delight 
It is covered with white. 

That sinister path 

For its pavement that hath 
Only sensitive hearts. 



GIFTS TO 

And saddest to tell 

Not a step but it fell. 
With an unerring art, 
On a sensitive heart, — 
Not blind and unheeding, — 
With the heel on a bleeding 
And crushed human heart. 
For an insolent throng, 
Filled with revel and wrong, 
Ever filing along, 

Take heed not nor care 

Where they tread or may fare. 
And I'm glad with delight, 

That at last overcast. 

All its crimson is white, — 

That frequented path 
To the broad, beaten way 

Through a wide open gate, 

Whither, early and late, 
The phrensied and gay. 

With mirth and with wrath, 
And with pride and with hate, 

Come filing along 

With curses and song, — 
That insolent throng 
On their way to the left. 
And of wisdom bereft, 

On the path bifurcate, 



THE MUSES. 89 

Through the wide open gate, 

Cleft in twain by a will 

And newly made still 

Every day by a will. 

But the path to the right, 
Almost out of sight. 

Through the small wicket gate 

Is narrow and strait. 
And few they be that 
Ever enter therat. 

Now, my window below, 
There is sleeping the snow 

And at last overcast. 
All the landscape is white; 

And I'm far away now 

From the sad, furrowed brow; 
And that unhallowed sight 

Left behind out of mind, 
With its trouble and strife. 

And the dark reason why 
That the symbol of life 

Is this Samian wi. 



90 GIFTS TC 

THE AUTUMN INSECTS. \ 

Let us linger yet and listen, 

While the lengthened shadows darken; , 

While the leaves with moonbeams glisten, \ 

Let us linger yet and hearken ! 

To the countless little harpers 

Harping on their little silver harps. 
Here and there and everywhere, 

In the leaves and in the grass, j 

On the ground and in the air, 

Every point a harper has; | 

But not one is to be seen, j 

Spirit like, invisible, 
Can you tell me what they mean i 

By their harping done so well? i 

j 

As if birds of every feather i 

Here had met to sing together. 

And their muffled music render, • 

At a pitch so low and tender. 
That a whisper plaintive, pensive, ' 

But most earnestly intensive. 

Is the compass of their lyric I 

Whether dirge or panegyric. : 

And the tones of all the daughters, 

Bom to melody and song. 
With the murmur of the waters 

As their ripples dance along ; 



THE MUSES. 91 

Rustle of the russet leaves 

Surging under branching limbs, 
With its undertones, relieves 

Higher notes the zephyr hymns ; 
Buzzing bees, their home songs humming, 

Welcome friends returning late; 
Pheasants on the mossed logs drumming 

Love calls to an absent mate. 
And all instruments musicians 

Ever formed or loved or fashioned. 

Little harpers rapt, impassioned. 
Bring and play with blind persistence, — 

Bring and take their own positions. 
Scarcely audible from distance. 

Violins and lyres and timbrels. 
Bugles, pipes, guitars, and lutes. 

Mandolins and fifes and cymbals. 
Organs, reeds, pianos, flutes 

All together mix and mingle, 

Not a note or tone is single; 
Tuned so low, but yet canorus. 

In a mellow, minor key. 

That it clearly seemed to me 
But a universal chorus 

Made by harps in harmony, — 
An eolian musicale. 

Unpremeditated, free, 
Like an artless madrigal. 



92 GIFTS TO 

Not the slightest timbre noted 
Any harp string from the rest; 

But the faintest tremor floated 
From them with their sense expressed; 

As when human heart strings quaver 
With emotion most intense, 

So the silver harp strings waver 
With the burden of their sense; 

And their dirge they keep repeating, 
Keeping time to every part, 

Like the ever rythmic beating 
Of the restless, human heart. 

When the star gems twinkled clearer 

Through the darkness waxing denser, 
And the dawn drew near and nearer, 

Like a light shed from a censer, 
Roused, I noticed with surprise. 

Half the harper choir was mute; 
And the rest, as if their eyes 

Looked into dreams, made notes to suit. 

Ten by ten, then one by one, 

Less and less the chorus grew. 
Listless, drowsy, nearly done. 

All the dirge now left to few; 
Till a single harper dozing 

Ceased abrupt, with wearied throat. 
The diminuendo closing 

In the middle of a note. 



THE MUSES. 93 

Silence then "for half an hour" 

Sudden, strange, and most profound, 

Smote our hearts beneath its power; 
As if rooted to the ground, 

Bare heads bowed "for half an hour," 
We stood awed for want of sound. 

Morning dawned and broke the spell; 

There were sounds and songs again ; 
To the woods and fields farewell; 

Homeward came we through the glen. 

Then I think I caught the meaning 
From a myth now intervening, 

Of the busy, little harpers 

Harping, harping, sadly harping 
On their little silver harps : — 

That the many named is dying, 
Whether Thammus or Osiris, 

Whether Baldr or Adonis, 
At the point of death is lying. 

Helpless, hopeless, yet desirous 
Of the life that is to be. 
"We can feel the pang upon us." 

Thus their message seemed to me, 
"We can see our doom impending ; 

Dim our light of life is waning. 
Brief our span of joy is ending ; 

Sad at heart, we keep complaining. 



94 GIFTS TO 

As we hear our death knell ringing, 
Our own death song we are singing. 

One last leaf is left to wither, 
One lone flower to droop and fade, 

When we vanish, going whither 
Lifeless death a tomb has made. 

We are Thammus or Osiris, 
We are Baldr or Adonis ; 

Sad to death, their fates inspire us. 
While the pang of death is on us, 

To this plaintive elegy; 

Dread of death we feel and see, 
Wet and chilled with fatal dews, 

More of life we yearn and long for; 
Life is sweet, too sweet to lose. 

More of life is this our song for. 
As if dead before our time, 

Chant we our own requiem, 
Only notes of doleful rhyme, 
Not with other chords in chime, 

Neither joy nor hope in them. 

Grieve we here and wail and weep 

For ourselves with sorrow deep; 
For the beauty of the year — 
Die we with the dying year — 

And this solemn vesper keep, 
For the end of life is near." 



THE MUSES. 95 

Yet their solemn, little ditty 
Fraught with grief, despair, and pity. 

Always sets me thinking, musing, 

Spite of any other choosing, 
On the life that is to be. 
And a hope with eyes to see. 

And a faith with ears to hear, 

As the end of life draws near. 



THE CLOVEN ROCK. 

One evening in autumn not long before dark, 
To be all alone and keep sacred our tryst, 

We two met at the fountain of Hillside Park, 

And happy were home ere our presence was missed. 

This natural park was the favored resort 

Of young men and maidens, excused from a college. 

For picnics, reunions, amusements, and sport. 

When liberty carried the latchkey of knowledge. 

Nearby jutted out a huge buttress of stone, 
A ledge perpendicular, high as the trees, 

With mosses and lichens and vines overgrown 
All penciled and pictured, artistic to please. 



96 GIFTS TO 

Thor wielded his hammer with might and with main, 

And dealt but one blow, like a thunderbolt's shock; 
He burst it asunder and cleft it in twain, 

A long, narrow fissure was left through the rock. 



This rent in the ledge made an avenue dim 
And dusk at its foot to the light at its top, 

A pathway inclined like a plane paved and trim 
With russet leaves rustling that hover and drop. 



This path it was wide enough only for two. 
Its walls were with crevices many indented, 

With crannies and niches half hidden from view 

By long, pendent vines with their tendrils sweet scented, 



Inwoven like curtains, with blossoms for gems, 

And out through their meshes grew little blue flowers 

That blooming drooped down on their long, slender stems; 
A sweet, little poem, we took it for ours. 



Was veined on the leaves and the petals of these 

In strange looking runes that we read and admired, 

And gathered their meaning, as honey the bees, 
In verse by the language of flowers inspired. 



THE MUSES. 



97 



What we mean 

May be seen 
By the wise 
Who have eyes 

To see signs 

In the vines, 
In the flowers 
That are ours. 

Tendrils clasp, 

In their grasp, 
Heart and hands, 
With their bands. 

White is light 

Clear and bright, 
Leads to truth 
Age and youth. 



Blue is true, 

Pure as dew, 
Ever sure 
To endure 

Long as life, 

Peace or strife. 
Flowerets red 
Lovers wed; 

Take your choice 

And rejoice; 
As you came 
Sign your name, 

Kiss for two 
To be one; 

Never rue, 
Now 'tis done. 
Two are one. 



We looked and beheld the fair faces of fairies 

Peep out from their coverts behind the green veil ; 

Their song, like the far away notes of canaries, 

So faint none could follow the drift of their scale. 

An alcove appeared, as if made for a shrine. 

The Druids had hallowed with mistletoe boughs, 

Midway at the side of this mossy incline, 
A secret and sacred recess for their vows. 



And in it a virgin stone altar unhewn. 

Rude, rough, and by chisel untouched or by hand, 
A monolith such as God chose to commune 

With priests of His own in the old holy land. 

13 



98 GIFTS TO 

With hands interclasped this stone altar across, 

We plighted our troth with a seal and a token; 
Through weal or through woe, and with gain or with loss, 

A yea and amen to be ever unbroken. 



THE HUSBANDMAN'S MONUMENT. 



Yon conical heap 
Of the best of the wheat 
The sickle can reap 
From the fallows that greet, 
With bountiful yield 
From the white harvest field, 
The sower that soweth the plentiful seed. 
The reaper that reapeth the sheaves for his need. 
Is iruly the husbandman's monument stronger. 
And older while younger, and sure to last longer 
Than any stone pyramid built on the Nile, — 
The new winnowed wheat of that conical pile. 

The cleanest and best that the harvest can yield 
From the yellowest sheaves of the broad wheat field. 
A tenth from the top of the heap is the tithe 
He vows as a gift from the sickle or scythe 



THE MUSES. 99 

The Giver of plenty to honor, the same 
The patriarch paid, in the thrice holy name 
Of El Elyon, in a land of the east, 
A kingdom of peace, to a parentless priest. 

II. 

The smell of the wheat to his nostrils is sweeter 
Than songs to his ear with their music and meter, — 
The singular, grateful aroma perfuming 
With odor more precious than scents from the blooming 
Of roses or rarest of tropical flowers. 
Or Persian perfumes in their gardens or bowers ; 
More odorous far than the balsams and spices 
Of India's scented and best paradises. 

And no other emblem or symbol or sign 
So wisely and well 
As this symbol can tell. 
By the savory smell 
That exhales from the grains of that golden cone, 

Of the savor that favors and honors his name, — 
The ambrosial aroma that rises alone. 

Like incense divine from the altars of fame, — 
So wisely and well 
As this symbol can tell 
Of the rise of his thoughts and his feelings benign 
Aloft in a cloud of this incense divine. 

So much his own symbol, so homelike and sweet 
The smell of that heap of the best of the wheat, 



lOO GIFTS TO 

He would that his prayer, as the incense of old, 
Might rise to the throne in a city of gold, 

Might up to the summit of heaven aspire, 
Like smoke from a censer of incense afire. 
As it burns on the top of a sacred tripod, 
A sweet smelling savor well pleasing to God. 

III. 

Another sweet odor his newly made hay 

Of tapering timothy tasseled and gay, 
And red blossomed clover 
His whole meadow over. 

In square within square the quarter swaths mown. 
Exhales from the windrows that parallel lay. 
Regales with delight, and holds captive his sense 

With numberless odors distributed thence. 

With pleasure he rightfully claims as his own. 
To none other heart can this pleasure be known. 

IV. 

But not even these, nor the aftermath's scent, 
Perfuse with its redolent, delicate charm. 

His eye can divert, as expectant, intent. 

He sits on a mound overlooking his farm 

And patiently watches and waits in the shade 

A maple's dense foliage over him made; 



THE MUSES. roi 

Although the hot beams of the summer sun glimmer 
On wheat stocks dead ripened, that dazzle and shimmer. 
To witness a sight 
That fulfills his delight,— 

A vision of beauty that glints through the gates 
Empyrean, but seldom ajar for a glance; 

He silently watches and patiently waits 

To catch a first glimpse of the waves that will dance 

At play on the face of the wheaten heads bent 

By wavelets and ripples escalloped and curved. 

That burst into billows with breakers outsent 

To find but the grass for a shore unobserved. 

Hast ever thou seen it, the field of ripe wheat 

Undulating like waters, as he on that seat, 
In shade of the maple, unmindful of plow 
Of scythe and of sickle, is seeing it now? 

That field of ripe wheat by a sudden transform 

A miniature yellow sea caught in a storm, 

Tossed rolling and rocking by gust and by gale, 
With never a sound, nor a harbor or sail. 

Hast ever thou seen it, the field of ripe wheat 

Tost rolling and rocking by gust or by gale? 
The scene he admires 
Is the muse that inspires. 

And he feels like a poet beginning his song, 

To which neither measure nor words yet belong. 



I02 GIFTS TO 

V. 

But more like a priest of the Hebrews of old, 
Who waived the first sheaf with its creased grains of gold, 
An offering of thanks unto Yaveh most high, 
For the plentiful gifts of the harvest's supply. 

He seemed as I saw him now rake up and bind 
The harvest's first sheaf from his ripe acres broad, 

With all of the cheer of a confident mind, 
And toss it across as if offered to God. 



THE LAST SONG OF THE POET, HIS FIRST LOVE. 

" Pictororibus atque poetis, 
Quodlibet audiendi semper fuit aeque potestas." — Horace. 
The poet was an old man. His hair and long flowing beard were as 
white as the drifting snow. His eye was full and lustrous. I saw them, often, 
him and the young girl his attendant, under a spreading tree in a grove not 
far from the village. No one seemed to know even his name. He always 
appeared as one enraped in deep thought, and seldom spoke. His recollections 
of his youth were dim and dream-like. He had partly forgotten the music 
of rhyme, but not the melody of words. And thus he sang: — 



Bring hither, young maiden. 
My lyre, that is laden 
With dust settled thick from the wings 
Of the swift flitting years, — 
From the gray plumaged wings 
Of the old immemorial years, — 



I 



I 



THE MUSES. 103 

With dust settled thick, as the sorrows 
That darken the heart 
Of the lyrist with sadness 
No winds of the spring 

Can dispel, — 
No osculent winds 
Of the flosculent spring 
Can chase from their place. 

Or dispel. 



Bring hither, young maiden, 

My Lebian lyre; 
May its chords still be laden 
With sparks of its earlier fire! 

I would sing a last song, 
Ere I bid it forever farewell ; 

It is but this once, 
And again — not again — 

Would I try if my hand 
Has forgotten its skill. 

With the ivory plectron. 
To sweep its sweet, tremulous chords, — 

My hand that is tremulous now. 
As the strings that vibrated 
And trilled as they filled 

My young bosom with joy, — 



I04 GIFTS TO 

Vibrated and trilled 

As they thrilled 
All my innermost heart 
With the mystical bliss 
Of young love and its joy. 

3- 
Come hither, young maiden, 
I'll answer thy question; 

I'll sing thee the song 

Of the love of my youth; 
For my eye it beams brighter, 
My heart it beats lighter 

To-day; 
And thy presence remindeth 
Me oft of a sisterly sylphid 

That lingers, still lingers, 

An evergreen flower. 
In memory's perennial bower, — 

Of one that I loved in the dawn 

Of these many dim years, — 

In the garlanded Dawn 

Of these old, immemorial years. 

4- 
It was far in a land of the west, 
Where the mountainous cumuli, — 
Slowly enrolling, in millions of mazes, 
Their folds phosphorescent, 



THE MUSES. 105 

Their corrugant folds, 
As they drift, as they swim, 
In the sapphirine sea of the skies, — 

The amethyst woof of themselves. 
Interwoven with silvery filaments 
Tinted with all of the tinges 
The prisms of ether can yield, — 
To the zenith aspiring, 
Ambitiously rise; 
Where the sun-gilded cumuli, — 
Slowly outrolling, in coming 
And going, the billowy folds 

Of their convolute woof 
That is like to the bending, broad breast 
Of a cataract suddenly chilled 
On a river of gold, 
Instantly chilled 
On a full flowing river 
Of liquescent gold, — 
To the zenith aspiring, 
Reluctantly fall; — 
There we dwelt, there we loved. 

In this realm that doth lie 
Just behind the blue curtain 
The circled horizon hath dropt 
Down between its sweet valleys and us, — 



^°^ GIFTS TO 

There we loved, as we lived, 

Where the mighty, athletic 
Strong arms of the mountains 
Embraced in their bosom, 
The islanded waters, that slumbered 
Confiding, in dreamless and infantile sleep, — 
In innocent, infantile sleep. 

5. 

And dimples and smiles overcircled 

The maidenly face of the lake, 

That had slept, as it woke 

From its clear, pebbled bed. 
Nor a sigh nor a sob heaved its 
Beautiful bosom besprinkled 

With scintillant diamonds 

The stars that are ever inisled 

In the ambient blue of the skies, 

Had sent down, as a legacy 

Telling their love; 

Whilst nymphs, with the naiads, 

Disported in gracefullest chorus, 

Their snowy white arms interwreathed, 
As they danced on the dense, tangled mosses 

That matted its margins 
And netted its banks 

With the coveted color 

That veils the bright forms 



THE MUSES. 107 

Of the orient, sainted Houranni 

That dwell up above 

In pavilions of pearl, — 
Disported and danced 

Mid the lilies, that cinctured 
Its breast with a zone 

Intertwined of the myriad flowers, — 
That tinctured its mists 

With the fragrance they breathed. 



It was down by its brink 
That there trembled an aspen. 

Outstretching its smooth, curving branches 
That tapered and slanted 

In conical symmetry up to the clouds, 
Where often we wandered. 
And anxiously waiting, 
With hearts that were beating. 

We watched for the pendulous, tremulous 
Tassels forerunning the coming 
Of pansies and daisies 
And star-bosomed flowers, — 
For the velvety vacillant tassels. 
In chrysalis crimsoned and silken 
So closely infolded, and yearning 
To burst into light from their buds, — 



GIFTS TO 

To leap with delight into life 

From the heart of their buds. 
And often we wreathed it with garlands 

Of roses and mj^tles entwined. 
And we saw with delight and we praised 

The green vine of the valley 
For climbing and vining. 
And spirally twining 

So tenderly round its long limbs 
That were ashen and pale 
As the face of the sepulchered dead, — 

That were ghastly and white, 
As the arms of the spectres of night; 

For we ardently loved the lone tree 

For its earnests foretelling 

The time of our joy. 



And oft, very often, down hither 
We roamed, whilst the Weeks, 
That were winged with the swiftest 
Of pinions, — the ice-hearted. 
Envious Weeks that would never 
One moment alight 
From their merciless flight. 
Meted out to the flowerets 
A miserly measure of life. — 



THE MUSES. 109 

In their pitiless haste. 

But a very brief moment to live; 

Nor sighed when they died 
Did these ice-hearted Weeks. 

Nor a tear did they shed. 

When their forms that were tender 

And slender, were blighted; 
Their heads that were stately 

So mournfully drooped. 
And their beautiful faces 

Were blanched 
With the paleness of death. 



Underneath the gray folds of its shadow 

We sat. and we listened intent 
To the soft, silken rustle 

That murmured and rose 
From the glossy, bright em.erald leaves, 
As they restlessly glistened 

And glimmered on high. — 
As they ceaselessly glittered 
And quivered on high. — 
From the silvery, sinuous, sensitive leaves. 
As they timidly trembled above. 

And I said, as I saw. — 
"These are only faint emblems. 



GIFTS TO 

Are very dim shadows, 
That speak of the sensitive heart 

Of the self that indwells with my own, — 
That speak of the limitless love 

Of the self that is twin with my own;" 
I said, as the breath of the zephyr 
Was breathed on the ebony tresses 

That floated and flowed 
O'er her shoulders far whiter 

Than fast falling showers 
Of the mid-winter snows, — 

That rippled and waved 
O'er her bosom far purer 

Than billowy drifts 
Of the crystalline snows. 
And I wondered no more 
That, for six and for nine 
Of the seasons, a vestaline maiden. 

The earliest child of the year, 

Unwearied had yearly returned. 
From her own native zone. 
Over mountains and vallies. 

Reviving the lilies that slept; 
In love and in mercy 

Came noiselessly raising 
The flowers from the dead, — 

Came hoping, yet vainly, 



THE MUSES. Ill 

To rival the luster that lighted 

Her luminous eyes, — 
To rival the roses that budded 

And bloomed on her beautiful cheek. 
To vie with the damask 

That budded and bloomed 
On her roseate cheek. 

9- 
But the Weeks, with their sombre 
And silent, swift wings 

They were here ; 
And their eyes they were fixed. 
With a look that was death. 

On the things that we loved. 
Then daily our orisons 

Fervently, vainly arose 
To avert the sad loss 

That they brought. 
But the many unnumbered. 

Young Hours flew over us, 

Jauntily flaunting 

Their plumage superb 
In the balmy, purpurean air ; 

And we saw, on our knees. 
And with hands that were claspen 

In sorrow unspoken. 
The happy young Hours fly out 



GIFTS TO 

On a motionless ocean 
No vessel has ever sailed over. 

They turn not nor wheel they about; 
Nor stop they a moment to hover. 

Oh, how our hearts yearn 

For their speedy return ; 
We lament and recall, 
But they heed not at all. 

And we hope against hope, 

But are too weak to cope 
With the might of their flight 
Away far out of sight. 

And try hard as we would, 

Still we never yet could 
Even bid them farewell. 
And why we are left — who can tell? — 

Here to linger and long. 

And our hearts ever burn. 
With a hope that is strong. 

For their happy return. 



A VISION OF TIME. 



Aloft there loomed a conical peak, 
That pierced the unclouded skies ; 

Its surface, all bare and scathed and bleak, 
Did out of a plain arise. 



THE MUSES. 113 

The fiery surge of the lava waves, 

That heaved from the deep earth up, 

Was chilled and dead in its hidden caves. 
Nor flowed from its burning cup. 

The molten scoria, quenched and stiff, 

Its torrents of fire now stayed, 
Encrusted the rugged and rifted cliff 

That ages could scarce abrade. 

Aloft upon an imminent ledge 

That jutted from out its side, 
I stood upon its perilous edge 

In fear that was tinged with pride. 

I gazed amazed on the rounded world 

Engirt by the dim skies under ; 
The drifting clouds they eddied and whirled;, 

And uttered the voice of thunder. 

The watery plain's marmorean blue 

Expanded wide from its base ; 
And ships seemed birds that silently flew. 

And vied in beauty and grace. 

When lo ! I heard a marvelous sound 

As of the mad whirlwind's wing, 
And saw a form, in the distant bound. 

Glide o'er the horizon's ring. 



GIFTS TO 
And slow it came through the vast inane, 

A prodigy strange and dire ; \ 

The storm grew tame in its airy train, 

And tempests but breathed their ire. • 

A demon fledged with an angel's wings. 

He kept his resistless flight ; j 

Alcides of old, the minstrel sings, , 

Was vanquished beneath his might. ' 

His silvery beard flowed down on his breast, 

His cheeks were furrowed and ashen, I 

His terrible eyes were ever at rest, ' 

Nor glowed with the fires of passion. I 

His crown was bald ; and the thin gray hair, 

A garland of age, entwined 
His head august, as a chaplet rare i 

Of diamonds and gold refined. 

And o'er his shoulder athletic was flung 

A gleaming and keen-edged scythe; 
The breath of life on its sharp stroke hung, 

The living did under it writhe. 

He grasped within his sinewy hand 

A measure of ancient mould, 
A glass capacious, the numbered sand 

Of ages and eras to hold. 



THE MUSES. 

The cycles and centuries, old and gray, 

By human knowledge untold, 
Were reckoned and registered, day by day, 

In letters of burnished gold. 

And, as each fated but golden grain 

Repeated its diadrom, 
A life came into a world of pain, 

A pleasure was taken from. 

And when his wings had darkened the zenith, 

And shaded all hearts below, 
"Can none divine," I whispered, "what meaneth 

This omen foreboding woe?" 

A voice then came as out of the grave, 

The solemn and open tomb, 
"My name you know, and Death is my slave 

To bury the nations in gloom. 

I'll tell him the stars from pole to pole, 

And he shall darken their fires ; 
The skies he'll roll in a burning scroll, 

As the last of men expires. 

And thus I'll reign, in a kingdom wide 

As is the limit of space, 
Till all that are mortal shall have died. 

Nor any to take their place. 



ii6 GIFTS TO 

And thus the circle of years I'll run, 

Till Death shall be no more, 
And two eternities, met in one. 

Shall seal my sepulcher door." 



THE MAID OF MELANTHA. 

Keti/' iiridviiw Sw/xara vaiuv. 

NOTE — This poem is written in imitation of the style of Pee. It Is more 
than based on fact. Nearly every sentence in it expresses a fact in poetic 
dress. It is written in the first person for the sake of vividness. The third 
person was a roommate of mine at an academy. I knew him well from his 
boyhood to his death. The very beautiful girl to whom he was engaged to be 
married suddenly died. And he fell into a mood of mind near distraction. He 
never fully recovered from the shock of this bereavement. But he became a 
successful minister of the gospel, was married, and brought up a family. Yet 
a veil of sadness and melancholy hung over all the rest of his life. His psycho- 
logical biography, sketched in the sequel of the main poem, is as nearly cor- 
rect as the close observations of a friend can make it. 

It was in the gloaming lonely, 

In the evening of the year. 
When its twlight casteth only 

Solemn shadows far and near. 

And a sorrow deep pervaded 

Somber woods and mistly vales ; 

And a gloom the dim cliffs shaded, 
Where the sullen eagle sails. 



THE MUSES. 117 

Over field and city brooded 

Melancholy, like a vision 
O'er the soul from sense secluded, 

Sent from distant lands elysian 
To the silent hall of slumber, 

Through the dream land's cornean portal. 
And I sighed that we must number 

All we love best with the mortal, 
Bud and blossom, leaf and flower, 

Children of the matron Year, — 
Sinless, innocent of wrong, 

Gone to death, with sigh and tear, 
From a life of love and song, — 

Blameless bud and stainless flower; — 
Though their early death prophetic, 

Lent a hope of some to-morrow 
Yet my heart beat sympathetic. 

In a unison of sorrow, 
With the bosoms of the dying 

Children of the matron Year, 
That were stricken, faint and sighing 

At the doom that had benighted 
Morn and noon and eve of theirs. 

And their hope and beauty blighted 
With a hand that never spares, — 

That were born the first and fairest 
Of the joyous matron Year, — 

That were going, best and rarest ; — 



GIFTS TO 



And no mortal hand could save, 

Left but few nor far behind, 
Left to weep a moment more 
For the loved that went before; — 

By a destiny unkind, 
To the ever yawning grave 

Of the mournful matron Year. 

Listless, long I sat and pondered, — 

Listless o'er an ancient tome, 
At whose lore my soul had wondered 

In whose lore it loved to roam; 
Musing, long thus I waited 

For the hour oft hailed before 
Which, each day, my heart elated 

By an earnest that it bore, — 
For that hour whose tireless pinions 

Ceased a moment at my door,— 
Hastening to its far dominions. 

Stopped an instant at my door. 
Then, my heart began to waver 

In the scale of hope and fear; 
And its pensive mood waxed graver, 

As I vainly tried to peer, 
With a vague suspense uncertain, 

Through the shadow, dark and drear, — 
Through the misty, twilight curtain 

Round it draped by hope and fear, 



THE MUSES. 119 

For an ancient, fateful gnomon 

To whose heart no guile was known 
Spoke an ill portending omen 

From its faithful heart of stone, — 
Told the wonted Hour had flown ; 

But the visitant, whose coming 
Oft I'd greeted with delight. 

Heard I not its pinions humming 
Through the ether's mazy hight, — 

Saw I not come swiftly flitting 
Through my open window high, 

With its wonted missive sitting 
Perched upon my desk lid high. 



When, the oaken stairway threading. 
Softly drew a foot fall nearer; 

Lightly o'er the threshold treading, 
Than all others save her dearer, 
By me stood a message bearer; 

Timid, childlike, mourner, sobbing 

With suppressed but keenest grief, 

Till my heart more wildly throbbing, 
Guessing all, yet found relief 

From distraction's pain unquiet. 

In despair's relentless fiat ; 

Yet, like wounded turtle fluttered, 
As the tidings sad she uttered ; — 



GIFTS TO 
"At the sunset rose her spirit 

High above the sky of skies." 
Must I, then I sighed, inherit, 

Where the sweetest flowret dies. 
But a lonely vale of tears, 

By untimely sorrows stricken. 

Where the fitful tempests thicken 
Round the loneliness it wears ! 

Then, the sable train moved solemn, — 

Trod the death march sad and slow, 
To the hollow vault that column, 

Mournful, wrapt in silent woe; 
Whilst, from out the belfry booming 

Of a mouldering, olden fane, 
Rang the death knell, grimly dooming 

Hearts of joy to grief and pain. 
And each doleful, woeful knell. 

As its rolling echoes died 
Down within the distant dell, 

Like the solemn night winds sighed. 
As its awful warning fell, 

From the hopeless, iron tongue 
Of the heartless, funeral bell, 

On the old and on the young, — 
As it struck and stunned and smote 

All distinct upon the heart. 
Every single, measured note 



THE MUSES. 



On the beating, bleeding heart, — 
Made its pulses stop and flutter 

With a horror that convulses 
That no tongue can ever utter, — 

Made its palpitating pulses 
Backward rush, with frightful start, 

Till, with poignant anguish pained, 
Scarce the stifled, broken heart 

Once its wonted throbs regained. 
And the hopeless, iron tongue 

Of the heartless, funeral bell. 
As its awful warning fell 

On the old and on the young, 
Made the living wan and pale, 

And the stoutest quail and groan, — 
Made the boldest courage fail. 

As it seemed to wail and moan, 
In unearthly, hollow tone. 
Tolling slow, Woe — woe — woe! 
One by one, old and young. 
Ye must follow, ye must go. 

Said that dread and hopeless tongue, 
To a solitary city 
Of a king by tears of pity. 

Nor by love to mercy bent. 
For he never can relent. 
i6 



122 GIFTS TO 

Now the valley clods rebounded 

Down upon the coffin lid, 
And the rattling gravel sounded 

Over her the darkness hid. 
Sobs and plaints and wails were drowned 

In that horrible rebounding, — 
Swallowed up unheard and drowned, 

Like as in a troubled sea, 
In the thump and thud resounding. 

In the dull, unearthly sound, 
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 
Said of saint and soul unjust, — 

Groaned, for said it could not be. 
And the mourners, with distrust, 

Shocked and shuddering, stood aghast, 

Lest she should not be, at last. 
Left to rest and sleep in peace, 

At the sound that drowned their cries, — 
Rude and cruel, heartless sound, — 

Sore distressed and ill at ease. 
Lest the dead should wake and rise. 

Then, we turned and left her sleeping 
'Neath a wide and drooping willow, 

Still forever, ever, weeping 

O'er her damp and icy pillow ; 

And the angel watchers keeping 
Vigils o'er her lonely tomb. — 



THE MUSES. 



123 



Death is still his harvest reaping 

Of the ripe and young that bloom, 
Ever searching, never finding. 

In the nation's wide parterre. 
Bud or blossom even reminding 
Of the flower of Melantha, — 

Half so beautiful and fair 
As the pure and peerless flower 

Of Melantha. 

Lorn and lonely then I wandered 

From the dense, discordant throng ; 
For the cords were cleft and sundered 

That had linked our pleasure long; 
And the olden volume's learning, 

On whose page I loved to pore, 
For the lore of sages yearning. 

Charmed my stricken soul no more. 
For I walked the vale of sorrow, 

By phantasmal shadows haunted, 
On whose night there dawns no morrow 

To whose grief no solace granted, 
As they flit and silent go. 

Wrapt in deep disconsolation, 
Hither, thither, to and fro, 

Where autumnal songsters chanted 
Only elegies of woe. 



^^4 GIFTS TO 

And, with each lamenting chorist, 
Breathed a mournful sussuration 

From the harp strings of the forest, 
As I passed within its verge, — 

Breathed a low and whispered dirge. 
Plaintive for the loved and lost ; 

And the murmuring brooklet sighed. 
As the snowy spray it tossed. 

Mournful for the maid that died, 
Weeping for the loved and lost. 



Yet, up in the belfry swinging. 

Still the death bell's tongue is ringing 

In my ear its summons, calling 
All the living to their doom ; 

Still I hear the gravel falling. 
Ever falling in her tomb. 

And my heart of hearts was aching, 
And its cords with grief were breaking, 

As I walked the troubled shore, 
Where a ceaseless wind lamented. 

Of a sea vexed ever more. 
By a tempest wild tormented. 
Only lonely, now I wander 

In the dense, discordant throng; 
But the ties are cleft asunder 

That had linked our pleasures long; 



THE MUSES. 



125 



And I weep and dream and ponder 
On that one, unchanging theme ; 

And my soul will not awaken. 

In its solitude forsaken. 

In a clankless thralldom taken. 

From its deep, unbroken dream. 

And the days of all the year, 

Dim and dusk with shadows gray, 
Strangely blended now appear 

In that one autumnal day. 
With its twilight solemn, lonely. 

And my life to linger only 
As the evening of the year. 



THE HAPPY ISLANDS' 

Nos manet Oceanus eircumvdgus: arva beata. 
Petamus arva, divites et insulas. — Hor. Epod XVI. 

Oh, let us not stay 

A night or a day, 
Where the strong assail. 
And the wrong prevail. 

In this world of sin 

We are dying in ; 

But haste away. 

Nor risk delay; 



i860. 



126 GIFTS TO 

For there is hope to go, 

And much to gain, 
But woe, we know. 

If we here remain. 
Then, trim the sail 

For a prosperous gale; 
And away, away, 
While yet we may. 
To the happy, fortunate islands, — 
To the vales and the viny highlands 
Of the blissful, beautiful islands. 

Set sail due west, 

Nor let us rest 

Till the truth we test 

Of these isles of the blest; 
Nor doubt any more 
Of this mythical shore ; 

For read we not truly 

That mariners duly 
Did compass these isles. 
Out many, long miles. 

In a tranquil sea, — 
These very same isles. 
Out numberless miles. 

In a western sea ? 

Then, sail to-day. 

While yet we may, 



THE MUSES. 127 

For the happy, fortunate islands, — 
For the vales and the viny highlands 
Of the blissful, beautiful islands. 

O'er the silvery sands 
Of their shelving strands 
The wavelets dash, 
With a gentle splash ; 
From the ground untilled 
Are their garners filled ; 
With a plentiful yield, 
From orchard and field ; 
Nor the mildews alight 
On their gardens by night; 
Nor mould nor blight, 
On their harvests white ; 

Nor the drought nor dearth, 
On their mellow earth ; 
And there is life to give, 
And we go to live 
In the happy, fortunate islands, — 
In the vales and the viny highlands 
Of the blissful, beautiful islands. 

Then, hesitate not 
To do as we ought 
Or stay we must 



128 GIFTS TO 

In this land of sin 
We are dying in, 
When safe were our trust 
That they surely must be, 
As all legends agree, — 
These very same isles. 
Though many, long miles, 
Afar in a halcyon sea. 
And it surely were wise 
To dare for the prize, 
Where they say nothing dies. 
Then, while it is day. 
Make haste away. 
To the happy, fortunate islands, — 
To the vales and the viny highlands 
Of the blissful, beautiful islands. 



THE HUMMING BIRD. 



I 



See yonder, 'tis coming 

Dost hear its wings humming? 
I could not but cry, 
As it flitted close by. 

For my heart it was wild 

As the heart of a child 
At the jubilant sight 
Of its musical flight, — 



THE MUSES. 129 

With the passionate, bounding delight 
Of a child. 

My blithe, little visitant, hail; 
To thy presence, all hail ! 
Mayst thou come, without fail. 

From thy distant dominion, 

On rythmical pinion, 
A bright, little sprite 

From an olden domain, — 
Most beautiful sight. 

In that golden domain ; 

In beauty the rarest 
The skill of the Maker has graced, 

A masterpiece fairest 
The hand of the Maker has placed 

In the land or the sky. 

Where the tulip and oriole vie, 

And the stars and the rainbows may try 
For thy title in vain, — 
For the meed of thy beauty in vain; 

I am happy to greet thee, 

As soon as I meet thee, 
In garden or glen; 
And I welcome thine advent again. 

Thou comest, thou fliest. 

Now glancing and gliding, 



13° GIFTS TO 

Careering and veering, 

The zephyrs dividing, 
The dangers not fearing, 

Now wending, far sweeping, 
Thy way that is peerless ; 

Now bending, still keeping, 
So swiftly and fearless, 
A vanishing path that ne'er swerves 
From the graceful, the recognized curves 

Of the beautiful 
In figure or foliage, plumage or flowers, 
Unrivaled by chisel or pencil of ours. 
Thou comest, thou fliest, 

Most exquisite artist, 
Thou comest, thou hiest, 
But never impartest 
To any the grace of thy powers ; 
In the mid ether placing. 
So duly. 
The tenuous, symbolized sign 
Of the beautiful,— 
Up in the mid ether tracing, 
So truly, 
The waving and delicate line 
Of the perfectly beautiful. 

Allured from the bowers 
Of a southland remote 



THE MUSES. 

By the dewy aromas that float 

From these flowers, 
When the roseate maid of the dawn 
Has withdrawn 
The penumbratile awning 
That veils the first dawning, 
Thou leavest thy lover 
A vigil to keep 

With the nestlings that sleep; 
And I see thee now hover 
Exultingly over 
The red blossomed clover, 
And taste the melrose that distills 
In the odorous cups that it fills 

With it sweetness for thee, — 
For the tiniest rival that vies with the bee, 
With its honey sweet nectar for thee. 

But restless forever 

Inconstant anon 
As the wind thou resemblest. 

So swift thou art gone. 
So soon thou departest, 

A barb from the quiver. 
Thou instantly dartest 
Till, poised for a moment, thou tremblest 
Before the coy lily the queenly, 
The modest, the seemly 



131 



132 GIFTS TO 

Young princess of flowers. 
That turns not her face 

From the bliss of thy kiss, 
And yet cowers, 
As she shrinks from her place, 
With a maidenly, dignified grace. 
At the touch of the breeze, — 
At even the breath of the breeze. 

The numberless lustres 

That sparkle and glance. 
As they dazzle and dance. 
In the gems of the earth and the sea, 
Opalesce in the dress 
That it wears, — 
Effloresce in the dress 

That it wears, — 
In the numberless clusters 
Of hues irridescent that blend, 
With the fairest that blooms, 
All the brightest that gleam in the sea, 
While they mingle and lend 

All their richest, best tinges 
To tint the silk fringes 
Of all of the plumes 
That it wears. 

It's arrayed in a raiment 
Of splendor untold; 



THE MUSES. 133 

It's invested in vestures 
Of velvet and gold, 
For the insects have granted 
Their gauzes of down and their glosses, 

The birds the best plvimage they vaunted, 
And Flora her flosses 
From garden and wild, 
And the stars that bedizen 
The circled horizon. 

And twinkle inisled 

In the ambient sky, 
Have come down from on high, 
With their scintillant fire, 
To besprinkle the peerless attire 
That it wears, — 
To highten the hues. 
And their tinges profuse, 
In the plumage it wears. 

Canst tell, if inclined, 

Art thou aught 

But a beautiful thought 
Of the queen of the spring. 

And the fairest, we find, 
That can ever take wing 

From her mind? 
Or art thou her carrier angel 



134 GIFTS TO 

Entrusted to bring 
Her a yearly evangel 

With tidings of spring? 
Or thou mayst be no other 

Than Uizilin visitant sent, 

From on high, 
To nestle caressed 
On the breast 
Of the Aztec wise maiden, 

The queen of the flowers, 
With all ordors laden, — 

To nestle, be fondled, caressed 
In the bosom divine 

Of the queen of the flowers. 
Thou mayst be no other 

Than Uizilin visitant sent 
From the sky 
To the maiden first mother. 
In mystical shadow divine, 
To be for a seal and a sign 
Of the human-divine — 
That mortal and immortal, blent 
Into one, may walk hand in hand. 
From a forfeited garden 
With foretaste of pardon. 
To a far promised land 
By an arch overspanned 



THE MUSES. 



135 



Of a rainbow that fades not away 
Nor by night nor by day. 

Thou art surely a beautiful purity, lent 
From the Maker and sent 

With the kindest intent, 
That we here may not fear, 
But may still in our search persevere, 

And, without any doubt. 
All agree that we find 
A safe index designed 

Our belief to bespeak 
In the distant ideal we seek, — 
A prefigure designed 

Our belief to bespeak 
That we, one day, shall find 

The ideal we seek. 



TRANSLATION 

FROM 

THE ANTIGONE OF SOPHOCLES. 

Antigone : — 
Oh, people of my native clime. 

Behold me traveling my last way, 
And seeing for the last, last time 

The lustrous sun, bright eye of day. 



136 GIFTS TO 

And ne'er again; but Hades, he 

Whose chamber takes us, everyone, 
Alive, as yet, is leading me 

To the dark shore of Acheron. 
Sung as the theme of no sweet song. 

Nor hummed by hymeneal lay, 
To Acheron I shall belong 

A bride, where shines no light of day. 
Chorus : — 

Nay, but with praises and having renown, 
You depart to the home of the dead; 

Not by disease nor by sickness worn down, 
Nor yet by the sword having bled ; 

You, alone of all mortals, shall go, 
Still living and free, to Hades below. 

Antigone : — 

I have heard the mournful story. 

How Tantalus' daughter cherished. 
The Phrygian stranger, perished 

On Sipylus' promontory ; 

How, like ivy clinging close. 
The flinty crust invested 
Her, by rains dissolving wasted. 

As the tale of mortals shows ; 

How the snows do leave her never. 
And eyes, that always weep. 
Bedew the mountains steep. 



THE MUSES. 137 

Most like her the god forever 
Is lulling me asleep. 

Chorus : — 

But she was a goddess of heavenly birth, 
And we are but mortals, the children of earth, 
And yet for a shade to inherit a name 
Like a goddess, will sure be no common fame. 

Antigone : — 
Alas, I am mocked ! In the name 
Of the paternal gods, why blame 
And insult me o'erwhelmed with grief 
Ere darkness and death bring relief : 
Oh! land of my birth, and ye great. 
Wealthy lords of my native state. 
Oh ! Dyrcean streams, and thou sweet 
Grove of Thebes, famed for chariot fleet, 
I make you my witnesses all, 
How, friends unlamenting, I fall; 
What laws have determined my doom, 
The dark couch of an early tomb. 
Chorus: — 

To the boldest extreme thou hast rushed : 
And, my child, under Justice's high throne 

Thy life and its hope thou hast crushed ; 
Thou dost some vice of thy sire atone. 



138 GIFTS TO 

TRANSLATION OF SAPPHO'S 

Elt A4)P0AITHN. 

I had not seen or heard of any translation of Sappho, either prose or 
poetic, when I undertook to versify in English her two remaining songs, all 
that is known to be left of her poetry. She lived about 610 B. C, or in the 
times of Jeremiah and Solon. She was a Lesbian, a Greek of the Greeks. By 
the ancient critics she was called the "Tenth Muse," and was pronounced to 
be wonderful, inimitable in lyric songs. Wheh Solon heard his nephew sing 
one of her songs, the old statesman said he wished he might not die till he had 
learned it. She kept a school of girls who studied music, poetry, the art of 
beauty; and to whom she taught gracefulness. Corrinna was one of her most 
famous pupils. When she was writing verses, Sappho told her to sow with the 
hand and not with the sack. Even Aspasla and Hypasia could not rival her. 
She stands alone among the literary women of the world. Every stanza of her 
songs is a garland of the sweetest and rarest flowers. 

Dear Goddess immortal, bright-throned Aphrodite, 
Fair queen of intrigue, do not vex me, I pray thee, 
Nor grieve me submissive, thou child of the mighty, 
Nor longer delay me. 

But hither come quickly, ah, that thou would'st come. 
And kindly auspicious respond to my vow. 
Descend from thy golden, paternal, bright home, 
And answer me now. 

Thy beautiful swans in thy chariot yoked, 
In circles descending, through midst of the air, 
To the brown earth, their mistress from heaven invoked, 
To me may they bear. 



THE MUSES. 139 

Thy countenance immortal made sweeter with smiles, 
Thou blessed, my wishes thou then wouldst inquire. 
And why I have called thee to aid with thy wiles, 
What boon I desire; 

And what most of all would my fond heart enrapture. 
The hope that I cherish, that charms and delights me; 
What love I would have thee assist me to capture, — 
"My Sappho, who slights thee? 

For if he now flee thee, he soon will pursue thee ; 
The gift he won't take, he will soon give the same ; 
If he feign not to love, yet soon will he woo thee 
Rejecting his flame." 

Then come even now and release me from care ; 
My heart loves that promise ; do not with it dally ; 
Fulfill thy response for it answers my prayer; 
Thyself be my ally. 



140 GIFTS TO 

TRANSLATION OF SAPPHO'S 

TlVOt TTNIKHN 'EPOMENHN. 

He seems to me equal in bliss to the gods, 
The lover who basks in thy presence, and hears 
Thy songs sweet as any their happy abodes 
Could bring to his ears, 

And near to thy side in thy smile may rejoice. 
My heart in my bosom it phrensies with love. 
For when I behold thee my tremulous voice 
But faltering can move. 

My accents are broken, and instantly flashes 
A subtle flush over me, thinking of thee. 
My buzzing ears ring, and though raised are their lashes, — 
My eyes cannot see. 

A dampness is chill on my brow, and I tremble, 
I am pale as the lily whose tinges have fled. 
And, near to the portal of death, I resemble 
The motionless dead. 

But since I am poor I must all this endure — 

NOTE — The rest of the original has been lost. 



I 



THE MUSES. 141 

MARCH OF SENNACHARIB'S ARMY AGAINST 
JERUSALEM. 

Note — This in the original is the most wonderful pen picture I have read, 
poetically powerful, graphic, dramatic, vivid. — B. C. 712 this army, 185,000 men, 
was destroyed in a night by an angel of the Lord. 

He comes upon Ayyath; 

He passes over to Migron ; 

To Michmash he entrusts his baggage. 

They pass through the pass. 

"Geba shall be night quarters for us." 

Trembles with fear the Rama ; 

Gibeath of Saul flees. 

Scream with thy voice, O daughter of Gallim ! 

Listen thou, O Lay shah! 

Poor Anathoth ! 

Hurries away Madmenah ; 

The dwellers of Gebim run with their goods. 

Even to-day in Nob [he is] for to halt; 

He shakes his hand over the mount 

Of the daughter of Zion, 

The hill of Jerusalem. 

See the Athon Yaveh of hosts 

Tearing off the branches in power ! 

And the lofty ones that are hostile 

Are cut down ; 

And the haughty are humbled. 

And he fells the thickets 

Of the forests with an iron ; 

And the Lebanon by a Majestic One falls. 

Isa. X. 28-34. 



142 GIFTS TO 

THE PSALM OF THE CREATION. 

A translation verbatim of Genesis I. and 11.. 1-2, the first poem that la on 
record. 

Proem. 
At first CREATED Elohim 

The Heavens and the Earth, 
And the Earth was chaos and waste, 

And darkness over the face of the chaos, 
And the Spirit of Elohim brooding 

Over the face of the waters. 

Strophe I.: Day. 

And said Elohim, 
"Be, Light," and was light. 

And saw Elohim 
The light that it was good. 
And caused a division Elohim 

Between the light 
And between the darkness ; 

And called Elohim 

To the light, Day; 
And to the darkness he called, Night; 
And was eve and was morn ; day one. 
Parashah. 

Strophe II. : Expanse. 

And said Elohim, 
"Be, Expanse, in the midst of the waters, 



THE MUSES. 143 

And be causing a division 
Between waters to waters." 

And made Elohim 

The expanse, 
And caused a division 

Between the waters 
That were from under to the expanse, 

And between the waters 
That were from above to the expanse. 

And it was so. 

And called Elohim 
To the expanse, Heavens ; 
And was eve and was morn ; day second. 
Parashah. 

Strophe III. : Earth and Seas. 

And said Elohim 
"Be they collected, the waters 

From under the heavens. 
Into place one, and be seen the Dry," 

And it was so. 

And called Elohim 
To the dry. Earth, 
And to the collection of waters 

He called, Seas ; 

And saw Elohim 
That it was good. 

And said Elohim, 



144 GIFTS TO 

"Cause to grow the earth Grass, 

Herb causing the seeding of seed, 
Tree of fruit making fruit 

According to his species, ^ 

Whose seed is in him upon the earth ;" 

And it was so. 
And caused to come up the earth grass. 
Herb causing the seeding of seed 
According to his species, 
And tree making fruit. 
Whose seed is in him. 
According to his species; 

And saw Elohim 
That it was good. 

And was eve and was morn ; day third. 
Parashah. 

Antistrophe I. : Lumenaries. 

And said Elohim, 
"Be, Lighters, in the expanse of the heavens 

For to cause a division 
Between the day and between the night. 

And be they for signs, and for seasons. 

And for days, and years ; 
And be they for lighters 

In the expanse of the heavens. 
For to cause light upon the earth;" 

And it was so. 



THE MUSES. 145 

And made Elohim 
The two lighters that are great, 

The lighter that is great 

For marshaling the day, 
And the lighter that is little 

For marshaling the night, — 
And the stars. 

And gave them Elohim 
Into the expanse of the heavens, 
For to cause light upon the earth. 
And for to marshal by the day, 

And by the night. 
And for to cause a division 
Between the light 
And between the darkness; 

And saw Elohim 

That it was good. 
And was eve and was morn ; day fourth. 
Parashah. 

Antistrophe II. : Water Animals. 
And said Elohim, 
"Creep the waters with Creepers, 
The Breather of life. 
And the Flier fly upon the earth. 
Upon the face of the expanse of the heavens." 

And CREATED Elohim. 
The Sea Reptiles that are great, 

19 



146 GIFTS TO 

And every breather of life 
That crawls, with which crept the waters, 
According to their species ; 
And every flier of wing. 

According to his species ; ■> 

And saw Elohim 
That is was good. 
And blessed them Elohim 
For to say, 
"Be ye fruitful, and multiply ye, 
And fill ye the waters in the seas. 
And the flier multiply upon the earth ;" 
And was eve and was morn; day fifth. 
Parashah. 



Antistrophe III. : Land Animals and Man. 

And said Elohim, 
"Cause to bring forth the earth 

The Breather of life, 

According to her species, 
Cattle, and Crawler, and Liver of the earth 

According to her species;" 

And it was so. 

And made Elohim 

The liver of the earth 

According to her species. 

And the cattle 

According to her species, 



I 



THE MUSES. 147 

And every crawler of the ground 
According to his species ; 
And saw Elohim 
That it was good. 
And said Elohim, 
"Make we Atham 
In our shadow like our likeness ; 
And rule They 
Over the fish of the sea, 
And over the flier of the heavens, 

And over the cattle, 
And over all the earth, 

And over every crawler 
That crawls upon the earth." 

And CREATED Elohim 
The Atham in his shadow 
In the shadow of Elohim 
He CREATED him, 
A male and a female 

He CREATED them. 
And blessed them Elohim, 
And said to them Elohim, 
"Be ye fruitful, and multiply ye. 
And fill ye the earth. 
And subdue ye her; 
And rule ye 
Over the fish of the sea. 
And over the flier of the heavens. 



148 GIFTS TO 

And over every liver 
That crawls upon the earth." 

And said Elohim, 
"See there, I have given to you 

Every herb seeding seed, 
Which is upon the face of all the earth, 

And every tree in which 
Is the fruit of a tree seeding seed, 

To you it shall be for eating; 
And to every liver of the earth, 

And to every flier of the heavens, 
And to every crawler upon the earth 

In which is breath of life. 
Every green herb for eating ;" 

And it was so. 

And saw Elohim 

All that he had made, 
And, see there, it was good mightily ; 
And was eve and was morn ; day the sixth, 
Parashah. 

Epode. 
And were finished the heavens and the earth, 

And all their multitude. 
And finished Elohim, at day the seventh 

His work that he had made. 
And he sabbathed, at day the seventh, 

From all his work that he had made. 



THE MUSES. 149 

And blessed Elohim day the seventh. 

And liallowed him, 
For at him he sabbathed from all his work 
Which created Elohim for to make. 
Parashah. 



MY TEMPE. 

Vos Tempe totidem toUite laudibus. — Hor. Lib. I. O. XXI. 1. 9. 

After the Golden Age, and Astreae had left the earth and gone to the sky, 
the human race became so wicked that Zeus drowned them all but one pair. 
They ascended Mt. Parnassus, and were saved from the deluge. But after- 
wards a mountain range preventd a river from irrigating the plain on one side 
of the range, and caused it to flood the plain on the other side. Poseidon cleft 
the ridge with a stroke of his trident, and gave source to the beautiful, little 
river, Peneos. It was admirable for the scenery along its banks, and became 
famous as the Vale of Tempe. It was a favorite resort of the Muses, and they 
delighted to frequent its grottos and tune their harps to the music of the 
waters trickling from the rocks. The myth is that these sparkling, little rills 
are the fountains of poetic inspiration. The Vale of Tempe, even yet naturally 
lovely, has been highly idealized by the poets, and all along the ages it has 
been taken as a paragon of perfect landscape beauty. 

NOTE — About a quarter of a mile below the old Ritchey farm is found the 
cascade which, with the scenery around it — a gem set in gold — I have, by "poetic 
license," called My Tempe. It was a scene of very remarkable natural beauty. 
I have never beheld any other place nearly like it. I saw it first when I was 
thirteen or fourteen years of age. My admiration of it was like love at first 
sight. It has been to me more influential in the formation of taste than all 
the poems I have ever read — a book always open before the eyes of imagina- 
tion. And yet the poem I have tried to write on this subject, although I ad- 
mit whatever idealization it may contain, has little to tell not of the natural 
scenery to be found there yet, and as beautiful as ever; or not suggested by 
the wonderful variety of natural objects with which I had been once so 
familiar, and which I found, on a recent visit, I could yet so well remember. 



I50 GIFTS TO 

THE REMINISCENCE. 



At seventy comes back the vision ecstatic 

Of seventeen, prompting my mind to indite it; 

I cannot lose sight of its beauty erratic, 

And all that is left of it thus do I write it. 



I now can remember, it may be, not clearly; 

My eye may be dim and my ear may be dull; 
But surely the scene and the vision are nearly 

The same that I saw when their glory was full. 



3- 

This Tempe of mine it has made itself real, 

I see it and hear it and feel it as then 
When first it had burst, as a lovely ideal. 

Out flowering from thought and to fade not again, — 



As bursts from its bud the bright flower immortelle, — 
A pointer forecasting the life everlasting, 

A perfect ideal revealing a real 

Above, that no other can reach or excel. 



I 



I 



THE MUSES. 



Come with me and see it, the cascade down yonder, 
Concealed in the spruces, this haunt of the Muses ; 

Its charm is unbroken, they yet may there wander, 
And claim this retreat for their rites and their uses. 

6. 

THE SCENERY. 

From thickets of underbrush, alder and laurel. 

And hazel and honeysuckle, sweet as love's dream, 

With cinquefoil and ground pines and grasses and sorrel 
Bent over and laving their leaves in the stream, 



7- 

There rippled a rivulet laughing and leaping 
Alive, like a diver, down over the verge; 

From dashing and splashing and song never sleeping, 
In whirlpool and eddy so soon to emerge. 

8. 

Its falling and falling with never a rest, 

A clear pool, like a basin, had slowly scooped out. 
With circlets concentric at play on its breast. 

And swarming with dozens of red-speckled trout. 



GIFTS TO 



9- 

Had slipped over aslant, at the end of the ledge, 
A huge rock that seemed as the hypothenuse 

Of a triangled grotto floored over with sedge 

And mosses, a cave that a naiad might choose. 

ID. 

The waters their voices lift up to the pines 
That whisper their oracles then to the oaks, 

Like oaks of Dodona, responsive to signs 

The prophet consults and an answer invokes. 



Come with me and see it, for whoever chooses 
May visit it now, and with eyes that are open 

Behold what I saw in this haunt of the Muses, 
Nor vanished a vestige, a sign, or a token. 

12. 

You see yon birch sapling, its trunk intertwined 
With spirals of woodbine grown fast to its bark; 

Right near to its root, as I call it to mind. 

The cosy, low nest of a brown, meadow lark. 

13- 
A whole, callow brood of young, fluffy wild pheasants, 

Eleven. I counted them, frantic, pell mell 
Ran nimbly away from a sparrow hawk's presence, 

And hid themselves under a tangle made well, 



THE MUSES. 153 

14. 

Of rushes and ferns; whence three shy, little rabbits. 

Scared into a panic, away from their lair 
Lept hurrying, scurrjdng, after their habits, 

To coverts more safe from their fears and their care. 



15- 

My wont was to wander down hither and brood. 
Without either paper or pencil or book. 

On poems I'd read and but half understand. 

Whose meaning I missed and so strangely mistook. 



16. 

To me, and beyond all my art of expressing. 

The life and the light and the beauty and sweetness 

Of poetry ever have been for a blessing. 

The richest of joys saved from time in its fleetness. 



17- 
THE IT SI OX. 

With eye and with ear all attentive, intense. 

Awaiting presentient a somexL-hat appearing. 
As if from a distance, and very far hence, 

As if from a mythical hinterland nearing, 



154 GIFTS TO 

1 8. 

I heard in my vision a billowy sound 

Of many and mighty, vast waters afar; 

The voices of rhapsodists, chanting profound, 

Were borne on its waves without discord or jar. 

19. 

A spectral procession of poets of eld, 

With harps in their hands and with crowns on their 
heads. 
Of olive and parsley and pine, I beheld. 

Of ivy and vines wreathed with tendrils for threads; 



Of laurel and oak leaves and myrtle, entwined 

With flowers of all lands, as the signs that they give 

For epic and tragic and lyric designed, — 

For garlanded bards that are dead and yet live. 



Whole hosts of the ghosts of these poets of old 
Came trooping and flitting, as out of the air, 

In thinnest of lineaments, scarce to be told 

From silvery gossamers autumn mists bear. 



THE MUSES. 155 

22. 
Then Homer and Virgil and Dante arose, 

And Milton, for only a moment enshrined 
In aureoles each, tinged with pale, Iris bows, 

The chaplet of each to a nimbus inclined. 

23- 

Like the four living rivers from Eden's four springs, 
Full fountains allaying a first human thirst, — 

Flowed four famous epics for peasants and kings. 
Rare treasures too rich to be lost or dispersed, 

24. 
The cosmical lore that a human taste brings 

As gifts from the past for the future to scan, 
Traditions in verses the race itself sings, 

The folk songs, the immortal stories of man. 

25- 
The Iliad-Odyssey, Scripture for Greeks, 

Prolific and fruitful as model and source. 
Was parent the .ffiniad owns, as it seeks 

The aid of its wealth, while it follows its course. 

26. 
The great Latin epic a leader provided 

Through mazes no mortal imagined before, 
The wonderful Comedy safely who guided 

Through dreadful Inferno by many a door; 



156 GIFTS TO 

27. 

And dire Purgatorial trials passed there 

Where prayer intercedes, and still onward through 
gates 

To glories ineffable, heavenly where. 

As leader through Paradise, Beatrice waits. 

28. 

This triad of poems all came to the making 
Of Paradise Lost to be after Regained; 

Its author from Scripture the most of it taking 

Yet drawing from these for the part that remained. 



29. 

Three profiles I saw then, in strangest tableau, 

Blind Homer, blind Ossian, blind Milton descend 

And meet, with glad welcome they all seemed to know. 
In converse familiar as friend is with friend. 



30. 

A shadowy theater loomed up before me, 

And four greatest tragedies passed as in dreams; 
Prometheus, CEdipus, in all their prime glory, 

Antigone, Hamlet, alive in their themes. i 

y 



THE MUSES. 



t57 



31. 
As dim apparitions, came each with his play, 

Grave ^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides 
Their vanishing shadows too airy to stay ; 

Then Shakspeare alone where no peer and no guide is. 

32. 
This haunt of the Muses, my Tempe I made it ; 

I thought and imagined and called and they came, 
The ancient Greek Muses, not loth to invade it; 

I saw them and knew them and called them by name. 

33- 
I peopled its nooks and recesses with Dryads 

And Oreads, wood nymphs and nymphs of the waters, 
And Naiads, with Primo, Teleso, the Hyads, 

And all of the silent Mnemosyne's daughters. 

34- 
With globe and with compass the star crowned Urania 

Holds silent her lyre and points up to the sky; 
Comedian, maker of merriment, Thalia 

With crook of a shepherdess looks roguish and sly. 

35. 
Tragedian, cypress wreathed maiden, Melpomone, 

Her foot on a rock, is rehearsing a play ; 
More rythmical, nimble and graceful, Terpsichore, 

With twinkle of feet, trips in dancer's array. 



158 GIFTS TO 

36. 

Polhytnnia mythical, eloquent, veiled, 

With finger on lip till the truth should be clear ; 

Kalliope, heroine, queenliest hailed. 

Rests stylus on tablet and waits as a seer. 

37- 
Holds Klio, half open, the scroll of all history. 

And reads to the nations the doings of men; 
Euterpe's twin flutes make a musical mystery 

No master but Orpheus is able to ken. 

38. 
Erato of twain maketh one by her art. 

With garlands of roses and myrtles united, 
A string on her harp for each chord in her heart ; 

Her song is the pledge that has always love plighted. 

39- 
And then there came, wafted by zephyrs, sweet voices 

Attuned to the music of harp and of flute 
And lyre, so enchanting the forest rejoices 

With quivering leaves, and its warblers are mute. 

40. 
Distinctly there came to me verses of Homer, 

That floated like billows of sound in the air; 
They sang of Ulysses, the pilgrim and roamer, 

Archilles the hero, and Helen the fair. 



THE MUSES. 159 

41. 

Anon, I heard clearly sweet snatches of song 
From Sappho, Anacreon, Pindar the Teian ; 

The finest of idylic lines that belong 

To Moschus, Theocratus, sad-hearted Bion. 



42. 

I heard, too, half verses I never had read. 

And words that were new to my ear and unknown ; 

It may be the fragments of songs that are dead, 
The hand of Corrina had sparingly sown. 



43- 
The shades of this pageant, now fading and fainter. 

Were spirited swiftly afar out of sight. 
As flimsiest cloudlets no poet nor painter 

Can picture or write, into mid-day's white light 



44. 

Drift swiftly and vanish, nor leave the least trace; 

But, in imagination's loftiest hall. 
They often revisit their frequented place. 

Their drama renewing, at memory's call. 



i6o GIFTS TO 

45. 

My station that broad table rock; coming nearer, 
I caught the first glimpse of this vision remote 

Approaching more visible, audible, clearer; 

Abstracted that evening, I went home and wrote 

THE CASCADE. 

Dash ever, bright cascade, 

Leap down from thy ledge 
Through the spray that has made 

Vines bloom on thy edge. 

Ye pure foaming waters. 

As clear as the fount 
Where Mnemosyne's daughters 

Did bathe on the mount, 
I love your soft murmur 

In melody sweet 
As songsters of summer 

Chant from their retreat. 
I have wandered, how often, 

From others away. 
To feel my heart soften 

Beneath thy sweet lay, 

I have sat on thy ledges, 
In laurel's dense shade, 



THE MUSES. 161 

And watched from their edges 

The foam as it played 
On the clear, dimpled bosom 

Of the whirlpool beneath, 
As white as the blossom 

Of thorn on the heath, 
Till bright pinioned fancy. 

Her wings dewed with mist, 
By strange necromancy 

And charms that she list, 
Wove round every feeling, 

That rose in my breast, 
A spell that came stealing, 

Like dreams that are blest. 

The Graces came dancing, 

And Nymphs filled the grove; 
And Muses, entrancing 

The bosom with love, 
From Hippokrene swift, 

With music along, 
Came bringing their gift. 

The passion of song. 



162 GIFTS TO 

46. 
POETS AND POEMS. 
My primer poetic, that fortune provided, 

Was Pollock's religious and grave Course of Time; 
Pope's Essay on Man, aphoristic, decided ; 

Young's Night Thoughts profound in the moral sublime. 

47- 
Didactical maxims and axioms of duty, 

[The beauty of right and of ethical truth; 
But scarce of the wider esthetical beauty. 

Their text and their sermon to age and to youth. 

48. 
Then, Chaucer I chose, the sweet singer of spring, 

From France and from Italy beauty and passion 
He blent with the runes of the Saxon, to sing 

The first English verses in new form and fashion. 

49. 

Next, laureate Spencer, Platonic and free, 
"The poet's own poet," the Merlin of song, 

His poem, a river half way to the sea. 

Then lost in the sand, for his life time too long. 

50. 
Now Shakspeare, the master supreme of his order ; 

Account for him fails, or is hopelessly wrong ; 
And Milton sublimest, or near to the border. 

Who smote every note in the gamut of song. 



THE MUSES. 163 

51- 
Sublimer and grander than twin peaked Parnassus 

Itself, the great epic poems and tragedies soar, 
For in them the prophet the poet surpasses, 

And tells of a Nemesis, just evermore. 

52. 

These poets I cherished, as teachers and friends, 
For poems, my favorites, culled from their pages, 

And loved as the lyric yon waterfall sends 

Aloft while it sings the same songs as for ages. 

53- 
The Eclogues of Virgil I read and recited 

As lessons in Latin, the grammar neglected; 
His poetic peasants I studied delighted, 

But risked with a guess how the words were inflected. 

54- 
Blind Ossian's harp had a singular chord 

That no other harp ever sounded or had; 
An echo responds in the heart of its word, 

The pensive-pathetic, the grief to be glad. 

55- 

The wraiths of the dead, in the clouds overhead. 
Find there a new home whence freely they roam. 

And visit their friends who were left in their stead, — 
Return to their help from the mist covered dome. 



164 GIFTS TO 

56. 
Poor Chatterton sang like a lark in the sky, 

"The marvelous boy" without favor or friend, 
Who missed the right way and was left out to die, — 

To starve and to die, but his fame has no end. 

57- 
Sad Cowper's voice trembles in singing The Task, 

Each word in the Picture of Mother a sigh; 
Glad Goldsmith's sweet verses in happiness bask, 

The Village Deserted and Traveler tell why. 

58. 
The Pleasures of Imagination and Hope, 

And Memory by Akenside, Rogers, and Campbell, 
Replete with good sense throughout their whole scope. 

Through which you may read or may leisurely ramble. 

59- 

The Seasons by Thompson, fac similes signed 

By nature's own hand, and made true in her name ; 

Gray's Elegy, finest and best of its kind, 

In one many poems, enough for his fame. 

60. 
The Mary in Heaven shows Burns at his best, 

The Saturday Night of the Cotter the same. 
And dozens of stanzas picked out from the rest; 

But many are earthly and sully his name. 



THE MUSES. 165 

6i. 
Lord Byron could never get clear of himself 

Till Greece taught him liberty well but too late, 
His steps went awry as if bent by an elf; 

He found what he sought, for his will was his fate. 

62. 
The will of his Manfred is awful, sublime ; 

Cosmopolite, lonely, the self of Childe Harold; 
In both of them songs of sweet, musical rhyme, 

With notes as well measured as birds ever caroled. 

63. 

The highest ideal that Goethe attained, 

Surpassed by the pathway he has for it drawn, 

Is left far behind, but beyond it ungained. 

The Woman Soul leadeth us upward and on. 



The high priest of nature, the prophet of song, 

Was Wordsworth, all poet, with tunefulness blest, 

He "lived in his own pleasant thought," seldom wrong; 
Talked poetry sweeter than music the best. 

65. 

I fared in the wake of his thoughtful Excursion, 

And studied the lessons he taught at its stations; 

The poet plebeian, in wisest discussion, 

Turned poet philosopher, teacher of nations. 



166 GIFTS TO 

66. 
Our Longfellow average may fairly be reckoned 

Between his own brothers, Wordsworth and Tennyson ; 
With the heart of the first and the head of the second, 

In the same hall of fame a recognized denizen. 

67. 

The dignified, stately, and scholarly Bryant, 
So chaste and so classical, almost a Greek; 

The Last Leaf and Katy Did show Holmes reliant 
On delicate humor, alone and unique. 

68. 
Par nobile fratrum, their Goldsmith out Holmes, 

First cousins poetic are Shelley and Poe ; 
But we have no Burns, nor in all of their tomes 

Can theY find a Bryant, nor one like him show. 

69. 

The Rime of the Mariner Ancient and weird, 

Who sailed on life's pilgrimage half round the earth. 

And brought back a mission and message revered 

For those that he "stopped" to be blessed by their worth, 

70. 
That mystical Rime, an enigma profound. 

Until the dead albatross seemed to suggest 
The burden the pilgrim of Bunyan had bound 

With thongs on his back, and the meaning expressed. 



THE MUSES. 167 

71- 
"Here lieth the aut±ior of Annabel Lee, 

The love poem matchless in this and all time." 
This epitaph true, and no other can be, 

Of Poe the eccentric, skilled maker of rhyme. 

72. 

At war with himself, in his bosom there met 

A demon an angel in deadliest strife; 
Consummate artist, his songs were all set 

To music, but discord drove peace from his life. 

73- 
The Raven, The Bells, Ulalume, and Lenore,— 

Ideals obedient, these stood at h\6 beck 
Till, finished the work, they could do nothing more, — 

His verses but Shelley could rival, I reck, 

74- 
Whose Sky Lark, The Cloud and The Sensitive Plant, 

Alastor, The Beauty Hymn and Adonais, 
Ethereal, sweet as the angels may chant. 

Are clear, spirituelle, and pure as the May is. 

75- 
Then Tennyson musical, accurate, clean ; 

A singer the sweetest and best of them all; — 
Read Maud, In Memoriam, Princess, May Queen, 

Ulysses, Enoch Arden and Locksley Hall. 



168 GIFTS TO 

76. 
He spoke for his century words of good cheer, 

An optimist ever in quest of the better ; 
Be strong thou to will, and yield not nor fear, 

Be free from the bonds of the ancient dead letter. 

71 
Between the cleft pages, his finger tip rested 

Upon the one word that makes Cymbeline live, 
When "crossing the bar" with its white wavelets crested; 

That word was no other than simply forgive. 










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